Stolen
by Pegasus M
Summary: While Skittery and the newsies of New York prepared to turn hierarchy on its head, Ellie Summers accepted life just the way it was. It takes a new world and an enigmatic woman for her to realize that she, too, had to take life into her own hands.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer**:_ Disney owns Newsies and all the wonderful characters from the movie._

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**Prologue.**

_December 1886_

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It had begun to snow. Occasional soft flakes at first, quickly building into a heavy but silent storm of white streaks. Visibility was low. The harsh wind blew the falling snow in disorienting circles. The icy crumbs stung his exposed face; he pulled his cap over his eyes, lowering his head and tightening his grasp on the large bundle barely cradled under his tweed coat.

His breath became labored as he trudged through the piling snow. The hot air escaped his lungs in short huffs of smoky vapor. He knew he barely had any time left and so broke into an awkward run, catching himself from slipping in the snow. It was not until he finally neared his destination that he felt it was reasonable to slow down and catch his breath. Despite the weather blighting his vision, he was able to make out the street sign post before turning right, searching for Number Nine. The man finally stopped in front of a rich two storey home colored an ivory white, not a chipping of paint on its surface. With a bittersweet smile, he spied Christmas decorations through the partially curtained windows.

"This is it," he said, peaking down at the child he held in his arms.

The man hesitated for a moment before walking up the path leading to the front door. He was careful not to make a sound, though the crunching of snow beneath his boots made his precautions nearly impossible. Ascending the steps to the porch, he crouched down and laid the bundled child on her feet beside the door.

She looked at him with wide, merry eyes, taking delight in the soft flakes of white falling from the sky. The rest of her face was covered by the two sheets wrapped around her small body. He had had to make do with those sheets; her paper-thin clothes were not suitable for the biting cold of winter. Her eyes flitted to meet his, a curious question lingering in them. His heart dropped suddenly, looking into those unsuspecting brown eyes, and he felt the urge to go against his better judgment, grab the child and run to the train yards.

"Don't look at me like that. This is better for the both of – for you," he sighed. "This is better for _you_." He reached into his coat pocket and removed an envelope. "Here," he said, searching through the folds of the blankets for her small fingers and curling them around the bulky envelope.

He looked at her with a sorrowful smile. His next words came out with a choke. "This is goodbye then." He took a deep breath, leaning forward to wrap the sheets closer around her. "Learn from your old man, hmm? Be brave – braver than me, at least." His hands fumbled inside his pockets but he quickly found that they were empty. Then, with a regretful expression, he said, "It only seems appropriate that I give you something to remember me by." He shook his head, as though ashamed. "I'm sorry."

The man had to tear his eyes away from the child's, blinking back the moisture that had welled there. He stood up abruptly and rang the doorbell before sprinting down the stairs, out of the front yard and down the street.

Several moments later, the door opened a crack, light escaping through the slim opening. The governess, Ms. Hutchins, peeked outside.

"Who is it?" She frowned. "If it's those pranksters from the next street down again, they'll have…" She trailed off, her eyes catching on the lumped blankets on the floor.

"Oh," she gasped. "What – what is this?" The woman bent down and reached for the blanketed girl. "Hello, there," said Ms. Hutchins, gazing at the girl curiously. "What are you doing there? How did you…?" The governess frowned as the girl continued to stare straight ahead down the street as though she could not hear. She hastily wondered if the girl was a mute when a voice even more cold than the winter air called from inside the house.

"Ms. Hutchins, would you like to explain to me why you are needlessly letting in this freezing draft?"

The governess straightened abruptly and spun around. "Mrs. Richardson," she addressed. "I apologize. But there is a young girl outside," Ms. Hutchins explained. She turned her attention back to the threshold and pulled the child indoors. She half-carried her inside the house and closed the front door, presenting the young girl to Mrs. Richardson.

The tall and slender Mrs. Richardson stood rigidly at the bottom step of the staircase.

"A girl?" she questioned. "And _what_ is she doing here?" Her green eyes narrowed. "Is she yours?"

The governess couldn't help but hold her chin in the air. "No, no, madam. She was just standing outside when I answered the door, madam."

Mrs. Richardson scrutinized the newcomer and frowned when she saw the child dripping over the floor. The girl was colorless, save for the flushed cheeks from the cold. The child's lifeless appearance was accentuated by the gray clothes and the white sheets wrapped about her. She kept looking towards the door, clutching something to her chest…

"Ms. Hutchins, what is that girl holding?"

"It seems to be a letter, madam," said Ms. Hutchins, after pulling the envelope away from the girl.

Mrs. Richardson strode towards the child and after another inspection, took the envelope from Ms. Hutchins, tearing it open with her bony fingers. She extracted the letter and her eyes flickered through its contents. Suddenly, the same bony fingers flittered to her chest as a frown overcame her porcelain features.

"Ms. Hutchins, please go and tell my husband to meet me here in the foyer right now."

The governess scurried away to fetch Mr. Richardson from his study. After several minutes, his lean and dominant form appeared from the end of the hallway, his face wearing an agitated expression.

"What is it?" he asked irritably. "I have a lot of – what is this?" he asked once he spied the child standing in the foyer. "And what is that on your face?"

But his wife's uncharacteristic expression remained, as she handed him the letter. He snatched the letter, still looking at his wife questionably. Removing his reading glasses from his vest pocket, he began to pore through the note.

When he finished, he looked to his wife, then to the child and after a pause, let out a triumphant laugh.

"So this is…?"

"Yes, dear. This is Ellie Summers. Alan Summer's only child. What shall we do with her?"

He continued to laugh, shaking his head as though he could not yet believe it.

"I almost feel sorry for the man. I mean – Alan Summers, a nobody. And he wanted to work for me. He barely had an education, and he thought he had the competence to work in law. Honestly, I don't know what kind of madness he had," he said, still chuckling. "You wouldn't understand the details, dear, but he was quite persistent, I'll give him that. Barely had a dime in his pocket, and he wanted so bad to fit in with our group. I was almost embarrassed for him from all his antics. I pitied him and he thought I was his friend. Friend," he repeated, wiping his eyes. He emphasized his point. "Do you remember, Ms. Hutchins? Do you remember Alan Summers? The man who called himself an apprentice attorney?"

The governess nodded slowly.

He continued. "He was an idealist. A fool," said Mr. Richardson under his breath. He studied the Summers child absently. "A damn fool."

"The letter says he's going to try his luck out West," said Mrs. Richardson.

"Let him try his luck. He'll need it," her husband replied darkly.

Mrs. Richardson sighed, tired of her husband's longwinded speeches which obviously failed to attend to the more immediate matter at hand. She spoke again. "What shall we do with the girl?"

He waved his hand as if he couldn't be bothered with such details. "Why don't you take care of it, hmm?" he said, and turned to return to his study, clutching the letter in his hand.

After he disappeared, Mrs. Richardson waved her hand in the same manner, as though she couldn't bear to be inconvenienced by the task. "There's an orphanage -"

"If I may, madam," Ms. Hutchins interrupted carefully and thoughtfully. "Young Francesca could use a… playmate of sorts. A companion, if you will."

"This girl will not stay with my daughter," Mrs. Richardson said dangerously.

"She can stay in the servants' quarters. If that is all right with you," she added quickly.

Mrs. Richardson hesitated as she thought over the situation.

"Then she will be the servant's responsibility," she said finally.

"Yes, madam."

The elderly governess breathed a soft sigh of relief. She had thought quickly, fully knowing that Mrs. Richardson would reject taking in a strange child. But Ms. Hutchins couldn't just send the child to an orphanage—not when she knew Alan Summers to be such a kind man. And she knew from taking care of the Richardson's only daughter, Francesca, that a companion would be more than helpful. Already the child had been exhibiting signs of acting out for attention that she wasn't receiving from her parents. _Yes_, Ms. Hutchins thought. _A friend was just what Miss Francesca needed_.

Mrs. Richardson took another look at Alan Summers' child and ordered Ms. Hutchins to get the girl dried off before she flooded the floor. She turned to climb back upstairs, leaving Ms. Hutchins and the girl standing alone in the foyer.

"Why don't we get you some dry clothes," said the governess kindly, taking hold of her cold hands.

But the child did not budge. She had appeared confused ever since the envelope was taken away from her. And now, she was just beginning to realize that her father was not, as she had believed, coming back for her. A single tear droplet fell from her glazed eyes, her lower lip trembled with sharp intakes of air.

Ellie Summers finally began to cry.

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**Author's Note:** (Updated 02.10.10) I realize that this sort of origins story has been done, and done well, but I am still compelled to write one if only as a personal writing exercise. Thank you to anyone who gives this story a chance! I greatly appreciate it. :)


	2. What If There's A Ghost?

**Disclaimer**: _Disney owns Newsies and all the wonderful characters from the movie._

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_**One.  
What If There's a Ghost?**

_May 1892_

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The Richardson's home sat comfortably in the middle of a quiet neighborhood in Astoria, Long Island City. The homes were impeccable, pristine - a reflection of the neighborhood's clean and safe reputation. This was the type of place where everyone knew each other's names, and smiled and waved at each other in greeting. This was where idealism ruled, where the wealthy resided: Ivy Street. But the impressive houses were not as peaceful as they appeared. They were blinds obstructing the truths of the people within. At least, that was the case with the Richardsons.

The family held a high position in society. Mr. Richardson was a well-known lawyer who was fairly influential in the business of politics. He was, regrettably for Ellie and the other household servants, very disagreeable when crossed. Mrs. Richardson was cold, remote, and only concerned with her appearance and position in society. She care only about the family reputation, taking considerable care as to how their family was viewed in society, and was ruthless when things did not go her way. This was the truth under their disguise as prestigious members of Ivy Street. To their neighbors, Mr. Richardson was a confident, self-assured man. Mrs. Richardson was an orderly, prim-and-proper woman. Their only daughter, Francesca Richardson, was the adored princess of the city. Parents of sons came asking for an audience with the Richardsons, hoping to secure a position with the family so that their son will be remembered when little Francesca came of age.

"I'm going to get you for that," Ellie snarled. She stood with her arms away from her body, looking down at her soaked clothes.

Francesca Richardson clasped her small hands around the now empty bucket.

"You can't," she teased. "You'll be in so much trouble."

"I don't care," Ellie cried, stamping her foot and simultaneously trying to wring excess water from her hair.

The two nine year olds stood glaring at one another in a face-off. They were near physical foils: Francesca with her laughing, glimmering green eyes and short brown curls, and Ellie with her flashing brown eyes and long brown-black, braided hair.

Ellie tossed her hair over her shoulder. She clenched her fists and when Francesca stuck her tongue out at her, she lunged.

Francesca jumped, tossing the bucket into the air, and took off running, squealing with delight.

The two girls ran around the backyard, shrieking madly, taking turns chasing after one another. Francesca suddenly came running towards Ellie, dragging a bucket by her side, water spilling over the rim.

Ellie yelped at the prospect of being drenched again and raced towards the lowest tree in the yard. She clamored up the trunk, reaching for the low branches, until she reached a secure position above the ground.

"Hey, that's not fair!" Francesca yelled, panting breathlessly.

Ellie stuck out her tongue in response.

Francesca stomped away defiantly. Ellie smiled, knowing that her opponent had surrendered. She grabbed onto the tree trunk as she slowly descended from its tops. Removing the leaves and twigs that had caught on her hair, she was just about to walk back into the house when the back door flung open and Agnes, the head of the servants in the house, stood in the opening.

"Mr. Richardson's waiting for his afternoon paper," Agnes said, her voice warning.

Ellie gasped. She'd been too preoccupied with battling Francesca that she forgot to fetch the day's paper.

"I'll be right back!" Ellie called. She was already out of the backyard, heading to the street through the path on the side of the house.

She did not have to travel far. From Ivy Street, she made a right and ran for several blocks until she found him. The young newsboy was standing at his usual spot, waving a newspaper wildly in the air and shouting headlines at the top of his lungs. She approached him, out of breath, gasping for air.

"Hi," she managed in between huffs, gulping for air.

The shorter newsboy turned towards her, startled. He gulped and looked down at the ground, blushing.

"Can I get the afternoon paper?" Ellie asked once she regained her breath.

"Uh… yeah, sure," he stuttered, still not meeting her eyes. He extended his hand stiffly, holding a paper towards her.

"Thanks," Ellie said and searched her dress pockets for money. She looked at him, and their eyes met for a brief moment before she squeezed her own shut, gritting her teeth.

"I'm going to be in so much trouble," she muttered to herself. Ellie smiled weakly. "Forgot my money," she explained apologetically. She lifted her hand, asking him to wait. "I'll be right back." She began to turn around to head towards the Richardson's home, when the newsboy stopped her.

"Wait! I mean… here. This one's on me," he said cautiously. "Here," he offered again, giving her the paper.

Ellie took the paper slowly, wondering whether or not she could trust the free offer. He looked up at her earnestly, still blushing fiercely. "I owe you one," she said with a nod, deciding that the boy was harmless. "Thanks."

The boy watched as she sprinted away. When she disappeared around the corner, he kicked the ground and chastised himself. Everyday she bought papers from him and everyday he wanted to ask for her name. And everyday he chickened out.

_Tomorrow,_ he thought to himself. Tomorrow he would ask for sure.

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"Ellie, if you keep this up, you'll get kicked out of this house for good. And then what'll you do? You'll have nowhere to go, no one to turn to. You're going to be on your own and it's a frightening world out there. You're lucky all they did was confine you to household duties."

They were inside their room, getting ready to turn in for the night. The servant's quarter was sparsely furnished; there was one bunk bed, one regular bed, and one dresser. A sink occupied a corner of the room with an unpolished mirror hanging over it.

Ellie glanced up from the floor at Agnes. "But, I was with Francesca -"

"No buts. And especially no 'Francesca's.' You know how Mrs. Richardson is. No mistakes from now on, is that understood?"

"Yes, Agnes."

"Now go to bed."

"Yes, Agnes."

Ellie climbed up to her top bunk and slipped under the covers. That was the third lecture she received that day. The first lecture came from Mr. Richardson because of the late paper, then from Mrs. Richardson because of Mr. Richardson's late paper and the cold soup at dinner, and from Agnes because of the late paper, the cold soup and Ellie's complaints about Francesca.

Agnes switched off the light and the room flickered away into darkness. Anne, the other house servant who occupied the bottom half of the bunk, was already asleep by the sound of her soft, steady breathing. Ellie heard Agnes getting into bed, the single mattress creaking from under her weight. A rustling of the blanket and a heavy sigh indicated that Agnes, too, would fall asleep in a few minutes.

Ellie waited until her eyes adjusted to the darkness of the room. She turned onto her side, wondering if the world really was as frightening and dangerous as Agnes constantly described.

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"Hey, wake up."

"No, I don't want to," came a muffled answer.

She shook Ellie's shoulder. "Wake up!" she hissed.

Ellie lifted one eyelid and was met with shock: Francesca was standing by her bed. Francesca was standing on the ladder of the bunk in her nightdress, gripping onto the side of the post. Ellie rubbed her eyes and squinted at the clock; it was too dim to make out the time. It was still dark by the scene outside the window and the moon was still relatively high in the sky.

Francesca, shaking from anxiety, bit her lip. "Come on."

"What do you want?" Ellie whispered groggily.

"I think there's something in my room."

Ellie gasped, her eyes opening wide. "How do you know?"

"I heard something," answered Francesca. "Come on, help me find what it is," she urged, pulling at Ellie's arm.

Ellie moved to climb down the bunk ladder when she stopped suddenly. She fixed an angry stare in Francesca's direction.

"Find it yourself," Ellie said, her voice still hushed. "You're going to get me into trouble again."

Francesca planted both hands on her hips. "I can't find it myself!" she whispered back.

"Tough luck," said Ellie, utilizing one of Agnes' favorite phrases. "I'm never going to help you with anything again. Every time you make me do something, I always get in trouble."

Francesca's shoulders slackened and she pressed her palms together, twiddling her fingers. "But… w-what if there's a monster in my room?"

Ellie gave the girl a skeptical frown. "Monsters? How old do you think I am – seven?"

"What if there's a ghost?" Francesca asked frantically.

She froze, slowly turning her head and looking Francesca directly in the eyes. "A… a ghost?"

The other girl nodded vigorously, her short bob springing with her movement.

Soon the two girls were out in the hallway, creeping past Francesca's parents' bedroom and down to the end of the corridor. Aside from the occasional creak of the floorboards, the house remained eerily silent. When the two reached Francesca's room, they hesitated, simultaneously looking at each other. The door was already open a crack; Ellie pushed it open gently. Francesca poked her head up from behind Ellie, looking over the servant's shoulder.

"Do you see anything?" Francesca whispered.

"I don't see any – can people _see_ ghosts?" Ellie asked suddenly.

Francesca breathed in sharply. "I… I don't know."

The two stared at each other for two seconds before running hysterically towards Francesca's large canopy bed. But as soon as the girls reached the safe haven, Francesca spun around abruptly and held a hand up to Ellie's face.

"Wait," she said. "You have to stay in the chair." She ran across the room and dragged a chair up next to the bed.

"Are you kidding?" Ellie asked, astounded. "You made me get out of bed for this? Am I supposed to be your – your…" she struggled for the right word. "Your bodyguard?"

"It's better for us to stick together if the ghost comes again," Francesca said matter-of-factly, rushing into bed and dipping under the covers.

Ellie pouted stubbornly, plopping onto the cushioned seat and drawing her knees up to her chest. She wrapped her arms around her legs and rested her head on her knees, but the tension in her body remained. Fear kept her alert for some time as Ellie imagined all the different ways in which a ghost could make its presence known. But lethargy took over eventually, and Ellie soon fell into an uncomfortable, yet strangely deep sleep.

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"Just _what_ do you think you're doing here?"

Mrs. Richardson stood in the doorway to Francesca's room, motionless, hands on either side of the doorway. She was already fully adorned in a deep green dress, her dark brown hair pinned tightly into a low bun. A look of horror and disbelief crossed her smooth face as she spied the intruder in her daughter's room.

Ellie slowly lifted her head, still half-asleep with only a vague realization of where she was. She sat sideways – her legs were curled beneath her, her arms were flung over the back of the chair. Upon hearing Mrs. Richardson's snappish voice, however, Ellie broke away from the bit of sleep she had been clinging to and leapt up from the chair, only to waver slightly from the fact that her right foot was asleep.

Ellie grimaced from the numb and pin-like pain in her foot. "Yes, madam?" she managed, though her voice came out squeaking.

"I said," Mrs. Richardson said, her voice low and ominous, "What are you doing in my daughter's room?"

"I… last night, Francesca asked me to help her…" Ellie sputtered.

"Francesca _asked_ you?"

"Yes. She said she thought there was a ghost -"

"A ghost?" Mrs. Richardson paused. She marched into the room, stopping in the middle, and crossed her arms in front of her chest. "A ghost," she repeated. "Well, why don't we ask Francesca," she said, her attention switching to the bed behind Ellie.

For some reason, Ellie had expected Francesca to still be asleep. But she was wrong. She was sitting up straight, her hands folded tightly in her lap, her head tilted downwards. Ellie pleaded with her eyes, but Francesca did not look up.

"Well?" Mrs. Richardson prodded.

Francesca swallowed. "I don't… know what she's talking about, Mother."

Ellie's heart sunk. At the same time, her fist curled at her side as she stared hard at Francesca for a moment before turning her back to the bed and to Mrs. Richardson. The mother's lips were twisted into a sardonic smile. Though she had just woken up only a few minutes before, Ellie mustered enough sense to stand up straight and lower her head in a servile manner.

"Aren't you the little liar," she said icily to Ellie. "I don't know what you were thinking, but one more incident like this and you can pack whatever little you have and get out. I won't stand for any sort of deception in this house. Is that clear?"

"Yes, madam."

"Get started on your duties. Remember that you are not allowed out of this house for one month. Remind Anne that she is to pick up the day's papers for Mr. Richardson."

Ellie stood rooted to the spot, waiting for more instructions.

But there were none. "Get to work," she snapped.

Ellie scurried out of the room.

Mrs. Richardson waited until the young servant was out of the room and down the hall before turning her wintergreen eyes to her daughter. Francesca felt her mother's cold eyes on her and sunk her head deeper, trying with all her might to avoid the petrifying fury emanating from their depths. Her mother stood for just a few moments longer, wordlessly, before turning around and walking out, her skirts rustling over the floor. Only when she heard the door close did Francesca finally lift her head and exhale the fear that had held her nerves taut.


	3. What's Your Name?

**Disclaimer**:_ Disney owns _Newsies_ and all the wonderful characters from the movie._

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**Two.  
What's Your Name?**

_June 1892_

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Mort kicked the dirt with the tip of his shoe. He sat on a park bench, an armful of newspapers he still had not been able to sell. It was a small park, negligence reflected by the layer of dust on the benches. Apparently, no one wanted to be outdoors during the worst of the summer heat. It was the perfect spot for Mort as he needed a moment to himself. The afternoon papers were not flying out of his hands as he had hoped. The sun beamed down on him, unrelenting in its heat. His stomach grumbled. Mort looked angrily at the headline again, racking his brain for a new, surefire way to sell his papers. He flipped through the pages for the hundredth time, searching for an intriguing enough story. Frustrated, he slammed the paper down to the side and gripped the ends of his seat. When he felt the emptiness of his stomach again, Mort resignedly made to take another shot at selling his papers. He compiled the stack neatly and held them under his arms when a shadow fell over him. Mort looked up, squinting.

"Hey, kid. Empty your pockets."

Mort sprung to his feet. "I don't have any m-money," he lied. As though to emphasize the obviousness of his lie, he felt the five pennies rolling and clinking in his pocket as the bully confronting him lifted Mort off the ground by the front of his shirt.

The taller boy had three friends with him, all standing behind their apparent leader.

"I said," the boy began, speaking through his teeth, "_empty_ your _pockets_."

"I'm tellin' you, I don't have any! Please, believe me. Let me go!" Mort cried, grasping at his collar, trying to pry the boy's hands from his shirt.

The boy's grip tightened. He turned slightly to his friends. "Search his pockets," he ordered.

One of the boys stepped toward Mort and patted his vest pocket. Feeling nothing, he moved to check his pant pockets.

"Let go of him!" came a sudden shout.

All heads turned simultaneously towards the voice.

Ellie Summers came stomping towards the group. Her face was strewn into a fierce expression, her hands clenched into fists by her side.

The boy began to laugh – the sight of such a small girl standing up to the three of them was amusingly pathetic. The leading boy dropped Mort to the ground, turning his full attention to Ellie.

"What're you going to do to stop me, little girl?"

She paused only for a moment in front of the bully, glaring at him in what she hoped was an intimidating glare. Then, she walked up to Mort and offered him a hand. Mort, in a state of shock, took her extended hand and got up onto his feet.

"I told on you," Ellie answered simply.

The taller boy looked confused. "What?"

"The copper who always stands at the corner of the park," she explained. "I told him what you were doing. He should be coming soon with the whole police squad."

"Wha – hey, guys!" he said, turning and waving to his friends. "We gotta scram - we've been ratted out!"

The boys moved quickly, their shuffling feet stirring dirt particles into the air, running to the park boundaries and jumping over the fences.

Mort and Ellie stood alone in the small park. The dust settled slowly. Ellie faced the boy and cocked her head to the side, observing him.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

He nodded. "Yeah. Thanks," he said quietly. "But… what about the bulls?"

"The what? Oh, the cop." She shrugged. "There is no cop."

"What?"

"I lied."

"Oh."

"Well, since you're okay, I guess I don't owe you anymore."

Mort's head snapped up. "Uh… you remembered?"

Ellie grinned. "Of course I did."

Mort blushed then and scratched the back of his head, chuckling nervously.

"I didn't think you remembered because… because it's been a month since then and…"

"I wasn't allowed to go out for a while," she said quietly. "This is my first time out since the last time I saw you."

"Oh."

Ellie was about to sit on the bench when she saw the newspapers scattered on the ground. She bent down to pick them up. Mort saw her and immediately crouched down, hastily collecting the papers into his arms. Ellie stood and handed him the rest of the newspapers.

"Thanks," he mumbled.

She nodded. "I just came out for lunch since I finished all my chores," she said, sitting down on the bench and pulling out a wrapped sandwich from her gray satchel.

The thought of food made Mort's stomach grumble again. He grimaced, clearly embarrassed, but sat down next to her. She glanced sideways at him, unfolding the wrapping in her lap. She felt sorry for him. The bullies had clearly shaken the newsboy. She fiddled with her lunch for a little bit before, to his astonishment, she held out half of her sandwich to him. He looked at the food, dumbfounded, then back at Ellie. His hunger got the best of him – he took the sandwich half and wolfed it down as she nibbled on.

Mort cleared his throat and clenched his fists on his knees. "I wanted to ask you… what's your name?" _He did it. He finally asked her_.

"Ellie Summers," she answered. "What's yours?"

"Mort," he said. Then after a pause: "You're really brave."

The praise pleased her immensely, even though she knew all too well that it wasn't true. Ellie still distinctly felt the pounding in her chest from the confrontation that had taken place only minutes before. When she saw the group threatening the boy, fear had directed Ellie's initial instincts to run away from the scene. Realizing that the boy was the newsboy that she always bought papers from, guilt had made the decision for her. What she did was unwise and reckless, she knew, as Agnes' usual scolding words suddenly rang in her ears. But Ellie had had no choice.

Ellie mumbled honestly, "I'm not brave." She looked out thoughtfully. "But sometimes you have to stand up for yourself, right?" She only vaguely realized that she could not follow her own advice as an image of Mr. and Mrs. Richardson flashed into her mind. She shook the picture out of her head. Finishing the last bit of her lunch, she looked down at the papers separating her and Mort.

"Is selling papers hard?" she asked out of curiosity.

Mort brightened. Somehow, that he was able to overcome his anxiety about asking for her name made him more daring. For so long he had wished for this opportunity; he had her attention now and he was going to cling onto it.

"Do ya want me to teach you how?"

"Teach? Like in school?"

"Well, yeah," said Mort. "I guess so."

Ellie shrugged. "Okay." She had the time today and seeing that it was her first time outside in a month, she was reluctant to head back to Number Nine Ivy Street and its stuffy interiors. She agreed to help him sell the rest of his afternoon papers.

The pair trekked to a rather busy section of their local area: the market. There, crowds of busy consumers filled the streets, movement was constant as blurs of figures hustled about, and there was barely any breathing room for the two traveling together, despite their small statures.

Ellie was having trouble keeping up with Mort, who weaved through the crowd more efficiently. His hand, gripping a newspaper, shot up in the air and he suddenly began shouting the headlines as Ellie had seen him do on so many occasions. Several men stopped them for Mort's papers. Every penny Mort received he stuffed quickly into his pocket and he would start again, continuously bellowing the front page stories.

When Mort and Ellie emerged from the market street, he held only one paper in his hand.

Ellie grinned. "I'll take a paper," she said, digging into her skirt pocket and coming up with a rusted penny.

Mort looked blankly at the copper coin in her hand and shook his head. "I can't take it," he said.

Ellie frowned. "Take what?"

Mort gave her the paper. "You're my only friend," he said slowly. "I can't take your money."

Ellie paused for one moment, taking in his confession. She then grasped his right hand and placed the penny in his palm, curling his fingers over it.

"It's not my money," she said forthrightly. "It's Mr. Richardson's."

"Mr. Richardson?"

"The person I work for," she explained. "I work for the Richardsons on Number Nine Ivy Street," she elaborated.

"Oh," was all he could manage as a response.

Mort and Ellie began to walk away from the market area, side by side.

"How old are you?" he asked suddenly.

"Nine," answered Ellie.

"Nine?" Mort puffed up with pride. "I'm _ten_."

She was not impressed. "Ten?" She looked at him for a moment. "Then how come you're so short?"

Mort slumped. He had no response. The kids at the Lodging House always made fun of him for his height as he was the shortest out of everyone he knew his age.

Ellie noticed his silence and tried to fish for something to break it. "Thanks for showing me how to sell newspapers," she said. "You're really good at it."

Mort brightened. "If you ever become a newsie, you can be my, uh… whaddya call 'em?"

Ellie stared at him with a blank expression, shrugging.

"Well," he continued as he could not think of the right word. "I can teach you more about being a newsie."

"There's more?" Ellie said in wonder.

"There's lots more!"

She considered him for a moment. He was a small boy, one who definitely did not look older than she, with a head of thin, brown hair peaking beneath his cap. His eyes were dark, uncertain, timid.

With a careless shrug and a grin, she answered, "okay."

"Promise?"

Ellie's grin grew wider. "Promise."

* * *

**Author's Note:**_ Ah, the innocence of youth. Thank you to anyone who's made it this far! For the curious, Mort is actually a character I picked up from the movie. Hopefully, his identity will become clear later._


	4. Beautiful Mornin', Ain't It

**Disclaimer**:_ Disney owns _Newsies_ and all the wonderful characters from the movie._

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**Three.  
Beautiful Mornin', Ain't It.**

_June 1899_

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It was a mild summer morning. There wasn't a single cloud in the sky to blot out the rising eastern sun, and the wind was blowing in comforting whisper breezes. The city was just beginning to wake and the streets were steadily filling with workpeople heading off to their posts. Individuals moved sluggishly past each other, their eyelids still heavy with remnants of sleep; no one seemed to be quite awake yet, no one except the youths that began to stream into _The World's_ Queens distribution center.

The crescendo of energized chatter had already peaked by the time Mort reached the distribution center. He slowed his pace when he saw that the distribution window was still closed, taking his place in the line—more like an organized crowd—of newsboys and girls. Mort stifled a yawn and stuffed his hands into his pockets, scanning over and past the heads of the other kids to search for any sign of old man Winters at the window.

A raucous voice broke through the muddle of conversations. Mort didn't have to turn around to know to whom the voice belonged, but he did anyway. Ricky came moseying through the gates with a small group of newsboys, clutching his stomach in laughter. He probably made a crack at Evans, a tall and lanky fellow who led the boys. Evans was widely regarded as the leader of his borough. Like Spot Conlon of Brooklyn and Jack Kelly of Lower Manhattan, Evans – just Evans, no one actually knew his first name – was the key to Queens. Most boys respected him, and girls were simply in love with his aloof, enigmatic air. It was no surprise that most of Evans' clientele were female – with hazelnut blonde hair that reached down to his heavy-lidded eyes, he seemed to exude a sort of inexplicable appeal even when he was selling his papers. He was generally a quiet guy, not much of a talker, just like Mort, but unlike Mort, in a self-assured way that seemed to intimidate those around him. Ricky, Evans' second in command, was probably the only one who could take playful shots at the leader. He was one of those rare people that were instantly likeable and even Evans couldn't resist Ricky's charm.

The dark-haired boy came up to Mort and clapped him on the back in greeting.

"Heya Mort. Beautiful mornin', ain't it."

"Yeah," Mort replied. "Sure is, Ricky."

None of the boys from the Lodging House were very close to Mort, but they got along fine enough. It was not that he was a bad guy. It was just that Mort was an awkward, unassuming kid who kept mostly to himself. Evans and Ricky were probably the only two guys that never made fun of Mort, and he was grateful for that, even though a part of him knew that they were just too important to waste time on such a pitifully awkward kid like him. Ricky was a great guy, though—Mort liked him. He was an affable character, trustworthy, too, and therefore seemed to know everybody everywhere and everything about them.

The line finally began to move. As the early newsboys bought their papers, Mort tried to spy the day's headlines, glancing over the boys' shoulders as they left the center to start selling. The boys didn't seem too excited. It was understandable. The headlines were quite bland. Mort would have to try his hardest to sell papers today.

Mort glanced down with his shoulders hunched, shuffling his feet as the line moved forward, when he heard her voice calling his name.

"Oh boy, and the mornin' is about to get _beautifuller_, eh?" Ricky nudged the taller Mort in the side of his stomach. His eyes, sparkling with amusement, focused on a point across the street. "Love is in the air, boys!" he announced.

Mort promptly turned a shade of red. He hoped she didn't hear that.

Ellie Summers waved brightly, her open palm shooting wildly through the air. She put her arm down once she spotted Mort's small returning greeting. Ellie clutched the woven basket in her hands and quickly crossed over to the distribution center.

It had been seven years since they first officially met in the small park. Ellie had changed very little—still as imprudent as ever—but Mort on the other hand, had changed drastically. At least, physically he did. Mort had undergone a huge growth spurt in recent years, towering over most of the other boys his age. At a brief glance, he no longer looked younger than his age. In fact, a passerby might guess he was older than his seventeen years. Broad shoulders tapered to a thin waist and lean legs. His clothes could barely stretch out enough to keep up with his growing form: his pants were now a bit short, coming just below his ankles. Many of his peers could not look down at him so easily anymore, but there was in Mort the same sputtering boy from seven years before: it was in the eyes, those light brown, timid eyes that had remained unchanged through the years.

"Good morning, hello," Ellie greeted, nodding her head politely towards Evans' group, who had just as politely removed their hats at her arrival, and Mort. Her face was flushed; she had run from home in order to catch Mort at the distribution center. She held up the empty basket in front of Mort. "Agnes gave me a long list of groceries to get from the market," she explained for her being out so early. "How's the headline? Need a selling partner?" she added jokingly. Ellie had tried her hand at selling newspapers a couple of times, and discovered quite quickly that she was terrible at it.

Ricky's eyes widened. "What a coincidence!" he exclaimed exaggeratingly, stepping forward into the conversation suddenly. "I am also selling my papers at the market today and am in need of a selling partner."

Mort stiffened while the other boys snickered at Ricky's outright forwardness. Evans shook his head with a short chuckle, and pushed Ricky on ahead towards the distribution center.

When Mort didn't answer her right away, a thought hit Ellie. "Unless I'll be in your way," she said apologetically.

"No! No, I want to be with you," Mort blurted out. "I mean—I'd like your company," Mort finally managed. He grinned despite himself.

* * *

The street market was bustling with people. Ellie and Mort fought through the crowds, scouring the fruit stands for the best deals. He did his best to keep an eye on Ellie, as he was afraid he'd lose her in the crowd. Ellie, taking her place between a group of people in front of the fruit stand, studied a box of golden apples and asked the seller how much they were.

"What will you be making with them?" Mort asked, eyeing the fruits. He stood behind her, looking over her shoulder. He took a moment from hawking the headlines to peer into Ellie's basket.

"Apple pie," Ellie said. "Agnes said—oh! Sorry," she said in surprise. Ellie had turned her head to face him when the top of her head nearly collided with his chin.

Mort stood still, looking down at Ellie with softened eyes. Her face, with its rueful expression, was tilted up towards his, only several inches away.

Her brows furrowed. Then her lips twitched, tightening into a suppressed grin before she burst and started laughing at him. "Are you okay?" she asked in between chuckles. "You've got a silly look on your face," she said.

Mort snapped out of his daze. "Oh. Yeah, I'm okay."

She turned her attention back to collecting apples. He scratched his head, feeling a bit embarrassed for getting caught staring. But Ellie didn't seem to notice. He wanted to ask her what it was that Agnes had said, but his state of discomfort held him back. So he told her he'd go back to selling his papers.

He had bought sixty papes. It was a lot considering the awful headline, but he needed the money. Mort was planning on saving enough money to purchase a special birthday gift for Ellie this year.

It was difficult, though. Even in the crowded marketplace, no one was interested in today's morning headlines. The news was dull, a repeat of yesterday's news. Every so often a head would perk up at Mort's voice, but as soon as the person took in the headline, the interest was gone. Mort sighed in frustration and rubbed the back of his neck with his left hand, gripping the stack of papers in his right. He wondered vaguely how the other newsboys were doing. It was always a wonder to him how kids like Ricky and Evans could sell hundreds of papers a day even with repetitive headlines. At this pace, he would not have enough money for Ellie's birthday present, Mort thought desolately. Or Christmas present, whichever came first. He remembered Ellie's confession, years ago when they were still children, that she could not remember her own birthday. "It's okay," he had said in a timid attempt to comfort her, "most kids don't." She had given an appreciative smile. Her eyes had taken on a faraway, distant look, and she told him that she always pretended the first day of beautiful snow was her birthday. She never explained why and Mort had not pushed her further.

Now he just hoped that the first day of snow wouldn't be until February. He wanted to give her a great gift, wanted to see her face light up. He had never had enough money to give her anything, but this was the year. This was the year that he wanted to do something special for her. Winter was still a long time away, Mort knew, but he needed all the time he could get to earn the money he needed for an impressive gift. The thought latched onto his mind now. How was he going to get enough money? He looked disappointedly at the papers still in his hand. What would impress her? He dreamt what her reaction might be like. He eyes would widen in surprise, her hand would flutter to her heart and, in an act of sheer happiness, she would –

"You don't look like you sold much."

Mort spun around. Ellie eyed the papers dubiously.

"Are the headlines that bad today?" she asked. A look of concern crossed her face.

The pair headed towards the edge of the marketplace; the throngs of people thinned as they zigzagged through.

"No… it's just that… I guess I just don't have the words in me today," Mort said.

"I don't know. Maybe you're losing your touch," Ellie said.

He looked downcast.

"I'm kidding, Mort," she said lightheartedly.

His head lifted immediately. "Oh," he said, realizing her intent. They continued walking for a few beats when he spoke up. "Hey, I was thinking… well, I was wondering. Do you, or, is there something you want for your birthday?"

"My birthday?" Ellie looked at him questioningly. "It's still summer."

"I know that."

She paused. "I don't need anything."

"Yeah, but… do you _want_ anything?"

"Mort," she laughed, "I really don't need anything."

The answer deterred Mort, but only briefly. He thought that if she didn't know what she wanted, then whatever he did get would be an even bigger surprise.

"I should head back," said Ellie, holding up the basket, which was now full, in explanation. "Agnes said we need all the time we can get for tonight."

"Oh, right." Mort realized they were close to the Distribution Center where they met that morning.

"Thanks for coming with me," Ellie said gratefully.

"You're welcome," he said. "The morning went by really fast with you here," he noted shyly. "And I'm almost done selling the morning papes, too." He gave a shaky smile. Truth was, he was upset to see her go. Who knew when he would see her again?

She shifted the weight of her basket to her left hand. "I'll probably be able to come by next week. Would lunch be okay for you?"

"Yeah!" Mort said without hesitation. He checked himself. "Yeah, lunch would be great."

They came to a street corner. She slanted her head to the right. "That's my curb."

Mort nodded. "I'll see you next week," he said, beaming.

* * *

She never would have expected that her friendship with the corner newsboy would last this long. Mort had been her friend for seven years. Ellie made sure to check in on Mort at least once every week, and he always greeted her with the same grin and excitement. He always kept her company whenever she got into trouble with the Richardsons, which happened, unfortunately, more times than she could count. And Ellie was grateful. He was the only person she knew on such a level outside of the stiflingly proper and regulated interiors of Ivy Street, where her penchant for speaking out of turn and engaging in clashes with Francesca lead to countless lectures and additional chores.

It was a wonder that the Richardsons didn't just get rid of her after all these years. In effect, though, Ellie was a hard worker. She was the strongest and most capable hand in the entire household. Years of carrying boxes, redecorating the house, those extra chores, and climbing the backyard trees to escape the Richardsons home had molded her into a lithe form.

Ellie freed one hand from the heavy groceries and pushed back strands of her raven waves, revealing a pleasant sunkissed face and almond-shaped brown eyes. Those eyes were tired today, rimmed with red around the edges. Agnes had shaken her awake an hour before usual and was rattling off orders before Ellie could even gather the strength to lift her eyelids. The Richardsons were hosting another dinner tonight. Ellie was weary of all these dinner events. That made two in one week, which meant two whole days of Agnes' constant nagging and shoulder overlooking. Ellie considered herself a patient person in many respects, but she had found herself gritting her teeth to keep her mouth shut during the dinner preparations on Monday. Now it was Thursday morning, and already Agnes was working her nerves. Even Anne, who was not easily perturbed, rolled her eyes once or twice at Agnes' antics.

She stood in front of Number Nine now. A pristine, ivory white house, not a chipping of paint on its surface. Even after all these years.

Ellie drew a deep breath for courage, held it in like a puffer fish, and was about to exhale when she was interrupted by a shrill cry. Her eyes shifted from Number Nine's front door to the house's side path that led to the backyard. The breath of courage came out as a sigh of exasperation.


	5. Fetch My Cat

**Disclaimer**: Disney owns Newsies and all the wonderful characters from the movie.

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**Four.  
Fetch My Cat**

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"Ellie," Francesca called, not sparing her a glance.

Ellie had just scurried into the backyard upon hearing the cries. As she had expected, the cries had been coming from Francesca Richardson. The only child of the Richardson family stood in the middle of the backyard, the skirts of her fine dress fluttering in the soft spring breeze. Francesca was in her finest garments, readying herself for the dinner that night. It was no wonder to anyone why the Richardson's daughter was the subject of many suitors' wishes. With amber-brown curls atop a heart-shaped face with green eyes and pink lips, Francesca was a petite figure and absolutely picturesque. To round off her traits, she had, under the tutelage of her mother, also learned the ways of being a refined and poised lady.

With haughtily pursed lips, Francesca uttered three small words. "Fetch my cat."

Unfortunately, she chose when to be a lady and when to be a brat.

Ellie muffled another sigh, placing a complacent smile on her face instead. She, too, had received training at a young age. After years of working under Agnes, Ellie had learned quite a few things from the older woman. Rule Number One: Just do as you're told. Rule Number Two: Never start a fight with Francesca Richardson. (This, Ellie learned the hard way.) Rule Number Three: Always smile. Even if you're upset, smile. Even if you think something is unfair, smile. It's only polite.

Well, it really wasn't much training, but, for the most part, the Three Rules kept Ellie out of trouble. Unlike when she was younger, Ellie accepted her place in life. Things were, simply, easier that way.

Ellie and Francesca's relationship was difficult to explain in few words. They grew up together, as it was their childhood governess' intention, Ms. Hutchins, for them to be playmates. Friends. Ellie wasn't quite sure she would describe their relationship as a friendship. There were times when they got along fine enough and others when they simply could not and would not understand one another. Their vastly different backgrounds didn't help matters. Francesca was trained at a young age to disregard the hired help in the house—which was a normal case in other households as well, for the servants to be looked down upon. Ellie knew that well. And perhaps if Francesca didn't constantly switch from her patronizing Ellie to trying to be her friend, Ellie wouldn't have minded so much.

"I don't have all day, unlike you," Francesca snapped.

_Tumultuous_, Ellie mused. If there were one word to describe their relationship, it would be "tumultuous."

Francesca pointed a dainty finger towards the sky behind Ellie's head. With a puzzled glance in Francesca's direction, Ellie turned towards her signaled direction. Instantly, Ellie knew what Francesca meant. Her cat, Felise, was on the roof again. Ellie had a feeling the cat just wanted a vacation from Francesca. Ellie knew she herself needed one.

Shielding her eyes against the noon sun, Ellie measured the two-storey house. She shook the tension from her fingers and stretched her body upwards, hoisting herself with a grunt onto the short railing next to the backyard door. She steadied herself, holding her arms against the wall for balance. Once she attained a sense of stability, Ellie placed her right foot on a jutting brick and grabbed onto the scattered protruding bricks above her, lifting and climbing up the house wall. She was familiar with the pattern of bricks she needed to grasp in order to get to the roof. She had lost count of how many times Francesca had asked her to retrieve her cat.

When she reached the roof, Ellie eyed Felise, who was staring back at her curiously with lazy green eyes.

She sighed, winded from the climb. "Please, Felise," she begged, "can't you hide under a table next time?" She reached for the lounging feline, her fingers stretching out to their limits, and pulled at Felise by the scruff of her neck. Scooping the cat under her arm, Ellie made the tricky journey back down to the earth.

Francesca stomped towards her and grabbed Felise from her arms. Without a word, she proceeded back into the house.

Ellie had a nagging suspicion that something was off about Francesca in recent days. She had consistently been in a irritable state, when she was normally moodier than she'd been as of late.

With great effort, Ellie hoisted up her basket and followed in Francesca's footsteps. The backyard door led to the kitchen, and she was sure that was where Agnes was waiting. Upon entering the threshold, three pairs of hands reached for the basket she held in her grasp. Anne was the one who pulled away with the heavy groceries and when Ellie gave her a questioning look, she nodded her head towards the clock on the east wall. Ellie gasped. She was 15 minutes late. If it were any other day, Agnes would have given her a tongue lashing. But today, everyone in the house was consumed with preparing for the night event. Ellie quickly looked about, but Agnes was nowhere to be seen. The other kitchen hands, two matronly women named Glenna and Nancy, were red-faced from working in the hot kitchen.

Ellie quickly donned an apron, pinned her hair into a high bun and went to work. She pulled out two carrot sticks from the pile of groceries and was in the midst of chopping when Agnes flew into the room. Her maple hair, streaked with white, was uncharacteristically ruffled and loose from her usually neat chignon. It was not a good sign. She gathered her bearings, taking several deep breaths. Ellie and Anne eyed each other, knowing fully what was about it come. Agnes began barking orders, some from Mrs. Richardson, others from Mr. Richardson, and still others from herself.

Everyone moved quickly. Ellie finished chopping and tossed the carrot pieces into the bubbling black pot on the stove that would produce the evening's soup dish. Agnes had to go tend to the china, thankfully, and as soon as her foot was out the door, the pace in the kitchen immediately slowed. Everyone there had gotten used to Agnes' frantic way of handling things when it came to preparing for these events, and they usually catered to her ways—while she was in the room. Tonight, the Richardsons were hosting a dinner for a Mr. John Taylor Mason, a very well to do man. He was one of Francesca's many suitors and Mr. and Mrs. Richardson had taken an instant liking to him.

"I hope this Mr. Mason fellow likes his potatoes, 'cause we've got lots of 'em," said Glenna gruffly, peeling away at the thin brown skin and dumping the potatoes into a large bucket.

"I wonder what he's like," said Anne dreamily. "You think he's like the men in those books, Ellie? Handsome and strong?"

Ellie gave a look of skepticism then sighed resignedly. "After seeing the kinds of boys fighting for Francesca, I can't believe any of those men in the books that save the damsel in distress actually exist in real life."

Nancy answered Anne's question more directly. "If Mr. Mason is handsome and strong, then I'm young and beautiful."

"Nancy!" Ellie and Anne exclaimed.

"Well, it's true," Nancy maintained firmly. "He's an old bugger and shouldn't even be eyeing young things like Miss Francesca."

"I can't wait to meet him," said Ellie, crinkling her nose.

Anne looked disappointed. Two years older than Ellie, Anne was a romantic. She was shy, quiet, unassuming. But she was also incredibly gifted: Anne had a memory like no one else, and no one ever questioned her recollections as she was often able to describe with clarity and repeat word for word things that had happened years before.

"When will you be gettin' yourself a lad?" asked Glenna pointedly with a cheeky grin. Her question was directed towards Anne.

Anne blushed and gave a soft giggle as a response.

Ellie's eyes widened. "My god, she's got a lad!" she said, momentarily picking up Glenna's accent. Returning to her normal voice, she said disbelievingly, "And she didn't tell us. I can't believe you didn't tell us!"

It was Anne's turn to be surprised now. "No, no!" she said quickly. "It's nothing like that," she said quietly. "Besides, what about Ellie? She's coming of age, too."

"Oh, no, that 'changing the subject' trick doesn't work on me anymore," Ellie said rather proudly. Her eyes then narrowed suspiciously on the still blushing Anne, who was nervously tucking back her blonde hair. "Who is it?" she whispered impishly.

"No boy in his right mind would put up with Ellie," said Nancy matter-of-factly.

At that, Ellie whirled. "I beg your pardon?" she asked incredulously. "I can…" she thought for a moment. "I can be quite nice." She added, "when I want to be."

"Oh, Ellie, you're always nice," Anne said sweetly.

"Not the point," Glenna said to Ellie. "The point is, lass, you've got the pride of a man."

Ellie screwed her face in consternation. "I do not," she mumbled defiantly.

"Ah, yes. You do," said Nancy as she passed by Ellie with a bucket of water. "Men don't want their women so proud. Women are supposed to be meek little creatures who do exactly as the men say," she said, her voice slightly biting. "Women are just pretty prizes."

"Ah, but see, now we women can use that against 'em!" Glenna said enthusiastically. "Men like to win prizes, do they? Then you must become something worth fightin' for. Once you have them in your grasp, those boys'll do anythin', I tell ya. Look at Miss Francesca, she's got it all right, she has!" She addressed Ellie. "If you want a lad – don't give me that face," she said when Ellie crinkled her nose. "Trust me, you will when you find him." She continued, "If you want a lad, you've got to swallow that proudness of yours and be willin' to be a little frilly sometimes. Like this." Glenna demonstrated by placing her fingertips lightly on her lips and batting her eyes. Nancy followed suit, pinching up her apron as though it were a dress and curtsying dramatically.

The women in the kitchen erupted in laughter. Glenna and Nancy had always been a theatrical pair and were always able to make even the most serious of matters into comical ones. Ellie wiped the tears of mirth from her eyes with the back of her hand. She walked over to the pantry and spied Anne from the corner of her eye. "Don't think you've dodged the subject, Anne," Ellie singsonged, walking past her and giving her an mischievous look in the form of an innocent smile. "You're going to tell me everything about this boy you've been hiding, yes? Yes, I think so."

Anne turned red again and was about to protest but Ellie stopped her with a determined look.

Agnes returned. She stopped short at the doorway, looking about. When she spotted Ellie, she waved her over. Ellie, puzzled, wiped her hands on her apron and approached her. She wasn't very happy, Ellie could tell.

Agnes spoke rapidly. "You need to go tend to Miss Francesca. She's in some state of mind, that one. I don't know if it's nerves, but I've never seen her like this." When Ellie lifted her brows in question, Agnes said, "She's just… sitting there. Seems you're the only one who can snap her out of it. Her own mother's not getting through to her."

"If Mrs. Richardson can't do it, I can't—"

"She specifically asked for you."

That was odd. Ellie finally nodded. She removed her apron and left the kitchen, heading towards the stairs to Francesca's room.

* * *

The door was slightly ajar. Ellie knocked three times and when she heard no response, she nudged the door open. Inside, Francesca sat in front of her vanity mirror, her back to Ellie. Her eyes were downcast, and from what Ellie could see from the reflection, Francesca was clutching something to her heart. Ellie cleared her throat to indicate her presence.

Francesca's head snapped around. The object she clasped in her hands – an envelope? – was quickly shoved into the vanity drawer. She stood abruptly and faced Ellie. "Come in," she said firmly. "And close the door behind you."

Ellie obliged.

Francesca looked about her room, her eyes shifting, as though searching for something. Ellie knew immediately something was wrong. Finally, she said, "I need a dress for tonight." When Ellie looked blankly at her, she continued, "Mother says I need to look my best to impress Mr. Mason." She gestured towards her closet. "Please find a suitable gown." With that, she sat back down in front of the vanity, picked up a brush, and began combing her thick hair.

Ellie crooked her head to the side, feeling as though there were more that Francesca wanted to say. She walked over to the closet and swung open the double doors. The closet was the size of a small room, filled from top to bottom with clothes and shoes and hat boxes. Ellie gave the dresses a quick lookover, then, after glancing over her shoulder at Francesca thoughtfully, she examined each dress more thoroughly. Pink dresses, blues gowns, whites, and an abundance of greens – Ellie presumed it was because the color emphasized Francesca's own green eyes. Casually, she remarked, "You know Anne is better at this than I am." She looked back again and saw Francesca had frozen, the brush caught in the middle of her long hair. Ellie's shoulders slumped; something _was_ wrong and she wasn't sure if she wanted to know. But then, "What is this about?"

"I don't know what you mean."

If she didn't want to talk about it, Ellie wasn't going to press her. Ellie pulled a light azure dress from its hanger and held it up. "How's this?"

"That's fine."

Ellie crossed over and neatly, carefully, laid the garb on the bed. With a wide boatneck lined with delicate lace, puffed sleeves that ended at the elbows, a corset waist and a full ruffled skirt, it was indeed an exquisite dress. Ellie felt a sharp twang of envy; she had to force her eyes away from the dress.

Francesca had gone back to brushing her hair mindlessly. Ellie waited for more tasks, but Francesca was in some other world. When she turned to leave, Ellie's slight movement must have caught her attention again.

"Ellie." Francesca bit her lower lip. "I want to ask you something."

"What is it?"

"I… that is, I…" She took a deep breath. "I…" she started again, but then squeezed her eyes shut. "Nevermind."

"Francesca, please just say it," Ellie said wearily, tired of Francesca's pulling and pushing.

"Nevermind," she snapped.

Ellie acquiesced, but she had to admit she was curious as to what was plaguing Francesca. Rarely did Ellie see the Richardson's daughter like this – when she did, the matter always involved Mrs. Richardson, and somehow Ellie always seemed to get dragged into the problem. This time, Ellie didn't push her any further. After all, Francesca's worries were her own, and none of Ellie's concern.

* * *

**Author's Note: **In _Thank You_, I don't feel I did justice to some of the secondary characters, like Francesca Richardson. Hopefully, they are more fleshed out so they can be better understood this time around.

We are getting close to seeing some of our newsboys soon, in about two chapters. Many, many thanks to anyone who has been reading. :)


	6. Do You Believe in Love?

**Disclaimer**:_ Disney owns _Newsies_ and all the wonderful characters from the movie._

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**Five.  
Do You Believe in Love?**

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Unfortunately, Nancy had been right in her assessment of Mr. Mason.

He was a portly man with dark slits for eyes, giving the impression that he was always sneering, which was further accentuated by the up-curling mustache he groomed. He was, however, finely dressed, reflecting his comfortable wealth, and there was no question that Mr. and Mrs. Richardson had taken a liking to him because of that. But a fine match he was not; as Nancy had said, Mr. Mason really was much too old for Francesca.

Anne had assisted Francesca in getting ready for the dinner and when the pair came down the stairs into the foyer to greet their guest, Mr. Mason's squinty eyes practically devoured the Richardson's prized daughter. Mrs. Richardson treated everyone to a rare show of congeniality, putting on a smile—which she rarely did—and acting towards the guest like he were a King. This Mr. Mason's credentials must have been extraordinary seeing Mrs. Richardson's efforts in campaigning the family and its respectable history.

The air in the house was perfectly civilized, filled with polite conversation, all except for the kitchen. There, it was a battle station as everyone frantically ran around putting finishing touches on all the dishes. Agnes was at the head, the fearless general, commanding every movement, every stir of the pot, every dash of seasoning. Her nerves were gone now—at least, they weren't as evident as before.

Ellie pushed back strands of hair from her face with her forearm. The heat in the kitchen was stifling. They were almost done, though, and Ellie knew that none of them could wait until the night was over and they could go outside into the fresh, cool evening.

It had been a long day of preparation, but the menu was finally set. Agnes looked over each of the dishes and nodded her head roughly in approval. She clapped her hands three times, dismissing Glenna and Nancy. Ellie and Anne were to put out the appetizers, which included the soup. Wiping her hands on her apron, she made towards the large trays when Agnes stopped her. In wide-eyed disbelief, she looked Ellie up and down and hissed, "Child, get yourself cleaned up! You can't expect to go out in front of an important guest lookin' like that!"

Ellie frowned, but when she looked down at herself, she was indeed a mess. There were splotches of liquid and a layer of flour on her clothes. She scurried to the basin as she undid her apron, pulling it over her head and tossing it over the hook on the wall. Ellie dusted the flour away and quickly brushed through her hair with her fingers. Glancing at Agnes, Ellie pulled her arms away and turned around quickly for her approval. Another rough nod of the head and it was finally time for dinner.

Agnes and Anne, each carrying bowls of soup, headed out the kitchen doors connecting into the dining room. Ellie followed soon after, carrying the tray of warm breads and rolls and soft butter. She caught sight of Mr. Mason and for some reason she couldn't explain, Ellie determined it was going to be a long night.

Anne and Ellie waited in the shadows of the modest-sized dining room for most of the night. Anne had her eyes on the guest for her eyes showed a reflection of disappointment and pity; Mr. Mason was not at all like the romantic and handsome characters in books, and to top it off, he had no sense of table manners. He slurped and slobbered and clanged his utensils. Mr. and Mrs. Richardson put on an impressive act, completely ignoring their guest's uncivilized behavior and instead rained compliments on his knack for business; undoubtedly, it was the money and reputation behind the man that was driving them. John T. Mason and the Richardsons would make a powerful pair.

Ellie, however, was less concerned with the guest and more preoccupied with studying Francesca. Something was decidedly wrong with her. Francesca, a girl who, according to Nancy and Glenna, could wrap men around her finger with the wink of an eye, was oddly stiff tonight. Her smile faltered, faded, and she barely looked at Mr. Mason throughout the discussions. She pushed the potatoes around on her plate with her fork and said few words. Ellie had seen enough of these dinners lately to know that this wasn't like Francesca at all. She was usually very lively when a suitor came to call on her. It could have been that Francesca had absolutely no interest in Mr. Mason, but there was something about the way she was acting that Ellie could not figure. Francesca's mind was just not at the dinner table.

The dinner and conversations concluded nearly four hours later. The Richardsons looked exhausted and Francesca immediately retired to her room. After a brief talk, her parents followed suit.

Ellie could not wait to get to the servants' quarters and rest her aching feet. She lost the urge to go outside and instead wished to just climb into bed. After washing the dishes, she and Anne trudged up the back stairway from the kitchen to their small, sparsely decorated room. They changed wordlessly—too tired to speak—plopped into their bunks and welcomed sleep. They passed into the subconscious within minutes.

* * *

She was awakened by a parched throat. She must have been having a bad dream—she couldn't recall what about; the remnants of panicked emotions remained, though they faded fast as she tried to remember the dream. Ellie resisted getting up for a while, hoping that she'd just fall back asleep; her body was heavy, aching when she moved. When she failed to fall back into slumber, she sat up grumbling and clumsily swung her legs over the side of her top bunk. She winced when her feet hit the floor. Pulling on a worn robe, her eyelids barely open, she made her way through the darkened house to the kitchen.

Ellie pushed the door to the kitchen and fumbled for the lamp. The flame danced to life and she rubbed her eyes from the sudden light. Yawning, she headed to the cupboard to her right when a movement to her left caught the corner of her eye. She jumped backwards several inches with a sharp gasp, her hand fluttering to her heart. A figure stood hunched, frozen, by the backyard door.

Ellie squinted and blinked in surprise. "Francesca?" she said, bewildered.

Francesca straightened stiffly. She glided to the counter in an attempt to appear nonchalant. There was something strange about the scene, but Ellie couldn't put her finger on what it was.

"What are you creeping around in the dark for?"

Offended by the remark, Francesca lifted her chin indignantly. "I do not 'creep around,'" she said.

Ellie reached for a cup from the cupboard. "Then what were you doing?"

Francesca was at a loss for words. "I… um, that is…" She watched Ellie wipe the cup with a handcloth. "I was thirsty," she said, as though the answer were obvious.

_Right_, Ellie thought skeptically. She didn't believe that was the entire truth, but she reached for another cup anyway and went to the basin to fill them. She returned to the counter where Francesca still stood. She pushed one cup in front of the girl. Francesca took it tentatively and sipped slowly while Ellie gulped hers down. The cool liquid soothed her dry throat. Peering over her glass, she saw Francesca staring at the wall, trying hard to avoid Ellie's questioning eyes. Ellie was reminded of the near conversation they had earlier, when Francesca became abruptly tightlipped. It couldn't be helped; she obviously didn't want to talk about it, whatever it was.

Then, without warning: "Ellie, do you believe in love?"

Ellie almost choked on her water. "What?"

Even haughtier now than before, she tossed her head and tugged self-consciously at her cloak. "Nevermind."

She was exasperating, but Ellie tried to appease her. "I don't know," she said.

"What?"

"I don't know if I believe in love."

"But… you and Anne—you're always reading those romance novels."

Ellie looked at Francesca pointedly. "Anne reads a lot of them. I've read some," she said slowly, trying to figure what prompted Francesca's question. "How do you know what we read anyway?"

Francesca cleared her throat. "Nevermind that," she said quickly. "You don't know if you believe in love? You mean to tell me that you don't… have any feelings for that newsboy?"

Ellie really choked then. "Mort?" she said incredulously, coughing. "_Mort?_" She shook her head vehemently. "We're just friends."

"Oh…" She was quiet for a few moments. Ellie was about to go and rinse her glass when Francesca suddenly launched into conversation. "I want to marry someone I love," she began intensely. "I know Mother likes Mr. Mason and those other boys that we had dinner with before. But, I don't know them. They don't know anything about me. Do you know, the other day, Richard Atwood confessed that he was very much in love me. When I asked him why, he answered that it was because I was the prettiest of all the girls he'd met in his life. As though he'd met many girls, that rude, pockmarked menace," she scoffed. "None of my suitors really like _me_. They just like my surname." She took a breath. "I don't want to be like Mother. I want to be happy, is that so much to ask for?"

Ellie was stunned by her confession. She had always thought that, for the most part, Francesca was her mother's daughter: always concerned with her status and what other people thought of her. It was difficult to think otherwise, considering how proud she had always been of her popularity, how ecstatic she became when people paid her compliments, and how motivated she was to marry a well off man. But here she was, advocating her own love over her parents' wishes. "I thought you said you wanted to marry a rich man and live like a Queen," Ellie said quietly, recalling a conversation they had had years before.

"That was before I—" She stopped short. "That was before."

Ellie nodded slowly. "You believe in love?" she asked delicately.

"I… well, I…" Francesca stuttered. She sighed. "I'm very tired. I think I'll go to bed now."

Francesca clearly didn't want to talk about the subject any more so Ellie dropped the matter. "Good night," she said. When Francesca swept out of the kitchen, Ellie picked up both glasses and went to the sink to rinse them. It was at that moment when Ellie realized what had been bothering her. Francesca had said she was thirsty, and so Ellie had assumed Francesca came down from her room for water - but then why had she been fully dressed, and wearing her traveling cloak?

* * *

**Author's Note:**_ After rereading _Thank You_, I thought that I really should have explored Ellie's and Francesca's relationship more. The way I handled their relationship before seemed too one-dimensional, which lessened the impact of what Ellie does for Francesca later on. There's a sort of love/hate, almost sibling relationship that neither really realize they have, something I hoped to convey by introducing the two at a young age and through these past couple of chapters._

_As always, thank you for reading and I'd love to hear your thoughts. I know these weren't the most enthralling of chapters considering the newsies were absent, but they are coming up next!_


	7. So We're Goin' On Strike

**Disclaimer**:_ Disney owns _Newsies_ and all the wonderful characters from the movie._

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**Six.  
So We're Goin' On Strike.**

**

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**

Ambastards. They were Jack Kelly's ambastards.

None of the newsboys of New York City had been prepared for the morning's news. As if they're lives weren't difficult enough, scrounging enough pennies and nickels to get by each day, it was about to become even more trying: Joseph Pulitzer decided to raise the distribution price of _The World_. Apparently, the newspaper tycoon thought that the boys could afford to pay more for their papers. He was wrong. And he would soon find out how wrong he was. As soon as the boys got to Queens. Specs, Bumlets, and Skittery were making the long trip to the borough east. They had hopped onto a crammed ferry across the East River and were now trekking through Queens' wide streets.

That morning, all the newsies of _The World_ learned about the price increase. The Manhattan boys decided they wouldn't stand for it, and with Jack Kelly's and David Jacobs' urging, the boys decided to go on strike. But, to organize such a strike meant they needed a Union, and for that, they needed as many newsies to join the cause. Right now, Lower Manhattan was spreading the word about the strike to gather all the newsboys throughout the five boroughs.

They were in Evans' territory now. Bumlets was familiar with some of Evans' boys and knew that they'd gather at one particular old, abandoned warehouse close to the distribution center. The boys had wondered whether other newsies would acknowledge the increased price, and it seemed that they did, as newsboys hawked the headlines on the streets around them. The three boys wondered how Evans would react to Jack Kelly's proposal of going on strike. The Queens leader was no Spot Conlon of Brooklyn - most likely because he chose not to be – but his involvement would still be crucial to their cause. After all, newsies had to stick together.

"What d'you think he'll say?" asked Specs.

"Who knows," said Skittery, shrugging.

"Evans doesn't talk much, but the kids know anyway—they know that Evans protects his boys," said Bumlets. "He'll join us or he won't. It could go either way," he said unsurely.

It would be up to them to convince him.

* * *

It had been a rough morning for Mort and the rest of the Queens newsies. When they found out about the jackup, there was an outrage amongst the boys. They shouted complaints and threats to the workers at the distribution center—in vain, of course, since they had nothing to do with pricing the newspapers. It wasn't until Evans and Ricky arrived at the distribution center later that things seemed to calm down. Evans had approached the window, spoke a few words with old man Winters and, with clenched teeth, bought his stack of papers. Evans even spotted one of the younger boys when he couldn't afford the new fee. After seeing Evans buy his papes, the rest of the boys followed suit, though not without some grumbling.

For Mort, his heart had dropped when he heard the news. He was already having a hard time coming by meals, especially because he was trying to save enough money for Ellie's birthday gift. Now it was going to be even tougher. He'd have to work harder, longer, if he wanted to get something nice for her. Knowing that, he had lost hope of being able to afford a grand gift, but now Mort saw the situation as a challenge. Mort would overcome this jackup and it would make him even more worthy of Ellie's affections. He raised one newspaper in the air and began shouting the headlines as loud as he could.

Mort had just sold a paper when someone clapped him on the back. Looking around, he saw Ricky, out of breath. "Hey, Ricky," he said quietly.

"Mort," Ricky acknowledged in between huffs. "We're meetin' at the warehouse."

Mort looked at him questioningly. "Why?"

"Some of Jack Kelly's boys are here. Sounds important. I'm roundin' up the rest of the boys," he explained. He started jogging away. "If you see any of the fellas, do me a favor and tell 'em to meet at the warehouse, all right?"

"But… I have to sell my papers," Mort started.

Ricky waved them off dismissively. "Forget the papes. Warehouse now." With that, he took off running.

Forget his papes? How could he do that? He had just made the decision to work twice as hard and Ricky was telling him to drop his papers for a meeting with some Manhattan boys. Mort tightened his fists. He needed to earn money and he would lose precious time by going to the warehouse meeting. However, the mere thought of crossing Evans and Ricky was enough to get his feet moving. Mort reconsidered his thoughts and decided he'd make up for the lost time by buying extra copies of the afternoon edition.

With that idea set in his mind, Mort headed towards the warehouse.

* * *

The abandoned warehouse was close to the distribution center, which made it all the more convenient for the Queens newsboys who worked for _The World_. It was small in comparison to most warehouses, but it was theirs. Their playground. Rays of sunlight filtered in through the dust covered windows and illuminated the ground. Being in there felt like being on a theater stage, the sun being the spotlight, and the newsboys were the stars. When they had nowhere to go, this was the place they turned to. It was rarely very crowded – most boys came and went as they pleased at different points during the day.

Today was different. Specs, Bumlets, and Skittery came bearing a message and a proposition for Evans, and the Queens newsies wanted to know what it was about. Ricky seemed to have effectively rounded up all the boys who sold for _The World_. He had somehow managed to arrive at the warehouse ahead of many of the other newsies and was leaning against the wall, waiting for Evans who had yet to appear. "How's it goin' fellas?" he said cheerfully when the Manhattan newsies walked in to the center of the warehouse. He spitshook with each of the boys. "Evans ain't here yet—scratch that, here he comes," he said, nodding beyond them.

The Manhattan newsies turned and were greeted by the leader of Queens. Again, they partook in the traditional spitshake. Evans asked them how they were doing and after exchanging those cordialities, he got right down to business. "What's this about?" he asked, taking a seat on a pile of crates. His posture made him seem indifferent to the whole situation. It was as though he already had an answer in mind and was doing them a courtesy by hearing them out.

"Well, as you guys know, Pulitzer raised the paper price by ten cents a hundred," Bumlets began. "That must not sound like a lot to them, but that'll bust us. I don't know 'bout you guys, but I'm having a tough time as it is." He paused to clear his throat. "Us newsies in Manhattan were talkin' 'bout how we have no rights, and how Pulitzer can do whatever he wants with his paper."

Specs continued. "We can't just sit and do nothin' and let Pulitzer and Hearst squeeze our pockets dry. We gotta do somethin' about this now and let 'em know we want the price back down."

"So what're we s'posed to do?" someone from the crowd of boys shouted.

"So we're goin' on strike," Skittery answered flatly.

"Strike?" Ricky repeated, skepticism lacing his tone.

"You need a union to go on strike," said Evans.

"If we go on strike, if all of us—every newsie in New York—go on strike, then we become a union," said Bumlets, offering Jack Kelly's own words.

Evans considered the idea, and for a few moments, the Manhattan newsies thought they got him. Then they watched as he shook his head. "Kelly's dreamin' a big dream," Evans said. He stood up and began towards the warehouse entrance while the Queens newsies parted a path for him. Ricky was soon right behind him and the rest of the boys were at their heels.

Skittery groaned faintly. Bumlets and Specs exchanged looks of confusion, both wondering where Evans was off to in such a rush. The three boys decided to follow, yet undiscouraged by the Queens leader's apparent refusal to join the strike. They hurried after the group of Queens boys, pushing past them to get to Evans. They realized too late that he was heading for the distribution center when they all heard the bell ringing, signaling the next edition. They picked up the pace and quickly stepped in front of Evans and Ricky, standing between them and the gates to the distribution center.

"Evans," Bumlets began, "At least think about it -"

"I have thought about it," Evans said, his voice now taking on a steely edge.

"Listen, if we don't do somethin' about this now, they'll keep takin' us for granted. We need to make a stand now… unless you fellas wanna sleep on the streets tryin' to keep up with Pulitzer," said Skittery.

A sharp movement to Skittery's right caught his attention. It was one of the Queens boys, one Skittery wasn't familiar with, which was strange considering how tall this kid was; he was kind of hard to miss. The guy looked liked he had just seen a ghost—his eyes were practically popping out from their sockets. He was staring just beyond Skittery's right shoulder and, curious, he looked behind him to see just what was so frightening.

Skittery frowned. It was just a girl. And a rather plain one at that—he couldn't understand why the Queens newsie was staring at her with such intensity. She seemed equally baffled by the view before her. There was something comical about the way she was studying the newsboys in front of her: her head crooked to the side, her dark brows knitted together, her lips pursed in indetermination – she looked like she was trying to figure out how to make gold from lead the way she was scrutinizing the scene. As soon as the thought entered his head, Skittery unintentionally let out a little chuckle. He turned back to the conversation, and in doing so, briefly caught the eyes of the tall Queens kid. He was glowering at Skittery now. Slightly disturbed by the Tall Kid's sudden interest in him, Skittery's frowning stare lingered on him for an additional second before turning in time to see Ricky move forward.

"Is Jack _serious_ about this?" he asked the Manhattan newsies. "Has he thought this through? You guys've seen the trolley workers. They don't seem too happy, if you ask me. Now Jack's talkin' about goin' against some people you should never go against. What makes you guys think Pulitzer will even listen to street kids like us?"

"What makes you think we can win?" Evans added.

"I'm tellin you, Pulitzer has to listen. No one's gonna buy his papes unless he has us newsies sellin' 'em for him," Specs reasoned. "The old man needs us. If we go on strike, he has no choice but to give in to our demands."

"But by joinin' you guys in Manhattan, you're askin' us to starve or lose a bunk. We barely got any money right now even with this damn job," Ricky said. "For how long, huh? How long we s'posed to go on this strike? How we s'posed to know if it's gonna be a week or months?"

Then suddenly, another newsie stepped in angrily. "There's no way I'm goin' on strike," he spat, eyes blazing. It was the Tall Kid, Skittery realized, and for some reason, the kid had targeted his venom only at him. The newsboys that surrounded them stood in a stunned and perplexed silence as the tension mounted. Skittery had no idea what in the hell the guy's problem was, but resentment bubbled inside him anyway—the way the guy was staring at him was a direct challenge. The two newsies fixed angry stares at each other, each bristling with a sudden animosity. Bumlets and Specs sent looks of alarm, but Skittery ignored them.

He heard a shuffling of feet from behind him and swiftly that girl was standing before him. Her brown eyes were wide - and then there was a hint of a grimace, as though she regretted her actions. Skittery abruptly realized that she was trying to protect the Tall Kid. Her eyes spoke to him, pleading. But one look at the Queens newsie, still glowering at him, and Skittery's pride wouldn't allow him to yield. His hand curled into a tight fist. It wasn't until Evans spoke when both boys were able to tear their attention away from the other.

Deliberately ignoring the near fist fight, Evans asked, "What about Conlon?"

Bumlets, turning his head away from Skittery and the Tall Kid, answered honestly. "Jack went to talk to him."

Evans nodded his understanding. "I won't have my boys starvin' till winter, fellas," Evans said with quiet finality. "I ain't gonna get them into something they can't win. You can tell Kelly that." With that, he walked past the Manhattan newsies towards the distribution center. The Queens newsboys, including the Tall Kid, followed their leader; some seemed relieved, while others sent Bumlets, Specs and Skittery sympathetic glances.

The Manhattan newsboys had failed to convince Evans. Dejected, but left with no other choice, Bumlets and Specs started for the ferry docks. They had to uproot Skittery from his spot, who was still aggravated by the near confrontation.

As soon as the trio put some space between them and the distribution center, they began to talk about the Tall Kid and the mysterious girl who had cut in to stop the fight. She must be his girl, they concluded. They interrogated Skittery, thinking that he and the Tall Kid had some history, considering the violent outburst Skittery stirred from him. Skittery complained he'd never seen the kid before and had no clue how the entire situation even began. He glimpsed back at the distribution center in the distance and spotted the girl with her hands on her hips - clearly agitated - speaking rapidly with the Tall Kid, who had emerged with an armful of newspapers. Skittery shook his head, finally trying to cool the irrational anger he felt. He focused on the more important matter at hand.

"You know, Evans and Ricky… they made some good points," Specs said hesitantly. He had spoken out loud what each of them was reluctantly thinking. "You think we rushed into this?"

The question went unanswered.

* * *

**Author's Note:**_ They're here! Our boys have made their appearance. Thank you to __**scorch rider247**__ and __**stress**__ for your reviews of the past couple of chapters! They truly made my day. :)_


	8. Drop the Papes

**Disclaimer**: Disney owns Newsies and all the wonderful characters from the movie.

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**Seven.  
Drop the Papes**

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**

Mort tried his hardest to ignore all the disgruntled stares aimed at him. On his way to Manhattan, he had wandered into other newsboys' territories and none were too happy to see another newsie trying to sell papers in his area. But Mort continued on, shouting the headlines. He couldn't concern himself with the trivialities of selling territories at the moment, not with the increased paper price, not with Jack Kelly's boys trying to go on strike. Mort had been straining to save money the past couple of weeks, knowing he would need months to scrape enough to purchase a decent gift for Ellie. The stress from those past weeks had finally made him crack, and he ended up snapping at one of them—the one Ricky had addressed as Skittery.

That wasn't the only reason he confronted that Skittery, if Mort was to be honest with himself. Mort's blood had boiled when he saw him smile at Ellie. He had never understood how some of the other boys at the Lodging House could take a disliking to someone on sight, but he understood the feeling now. It didn't help that that Skittery and the other two Manhattan newsies came to deliver news of going on strike at the time when Mort needed to earn the most money than ever before. Lower Manhattan and Jack Kelly and that Skittery were getting in his way. So Mort had been upset and angry by the possibility of a strike, but he kept to himself.

But then that Skittery had smiled at her, the girl whom Mort had known for seven years, and Mort had not been able to hold back his emotions. He had surprised even himself, as it was the first time he had ever spoke out in opposition of anything. Unfortunately, Ellie was not too happy by Mort's angry stand, reprimanding him and telling him that he was lucky a fight didn't break out. Mort smiled at the memory; despite her reproving, Ellie was very compassionate and Mort had always been grateful for her concern.

He caught the ferry to Manhattan not too long after buying the afternoon edition of _The World_ and after Ellie had went back home. They were supposed to have lunch today, but Mort explained that he had a lot of papers to sell. He believed in his heart that she would understand later why he had to cancel their meeting today; she would realize all the trouble he went through in the winter, when she opens her gift. The thought gave him strength.

While he was waiting in line for the afternoon papers, he had overheard Evans and Ricky discussing the possibility of a strike. It seemed that the two were not entirely opposed to the idea, but it depended on many factors, including the Bronx and Brooklyn. Mort felt betrayed upon hearing their conversation; he had depended on the two leaders to protect him, but if they were seriously considering going on strike, Mort decided that he had to take matters into his own hands. He remembered that day he spent with Ellie in the park: _"Sometimes you have to stand up for yourself, right?"_ she had said. He would finally act on her words.

Once stepping off the ferry, Mort set out for _The World_ distribution center in lower Manhattan. The city was vastly different from the more residential Queens borough. The lofty buildings were plastered one against the other, crowding the sky. There was more space to breathe in his part of Queens—the streets were wider, and he wasn't constantly bumping shoulders with everyone he passed. Mort had ventured into Manhattan many times throughout his life as a newsboy, but he would need more courage than ever today, as this time he would be confronting the fiercely loyal Manhattan newsies and their leader Jack Kelly.

It took a while for him to walk to _The World_ distribution center, as he couldn't spare to pay for a trolley, but he made it. There was a flurry of activity in this part of the city as young street kids raced to and fro past him, and Mort vaguely wondered if the Manhattan newsies already declared going on strike, even without Queens. Sure enough, as he progressed closer to Newspaper Row, he spotted a large group of newsies around the famous Horace Greeley statue. Some were carrying pickets and signs around the square. Mort's stomach dropped. It had already begun. He slowly walked over to the distribution center gates where he found several boys already waiting. He stood in line, feeling all the more hopeful knowing that there were others on his side. One of the newsboys gave Mort a weak smile.

Mort felt the sweat on his palms as he watched the newsies crowding around Horace Greeley. He couldn't believe how those newsboys could think of going on strike without Queens' help, nor could he see how they thought they could afford to go for days without any earnings.

Suddenly, he straightened. He strained his eyes to make sure he was not mistaken.

Standing right in front of the statue was Skittery. He was talking to a shorter, dark-haired boy and then to another with sandy hair and a red neckerchief. Mort recognized the latter as Jack Kelly himself. The feelings of enmity from the earlier confrontation returned, washing over Mort. He would not back down this time.

Consumed by his thoughts, his focus on Skittery, Mort almost missed the ringing of the distribution center bell. He felt the newsies around him push him forward, rushing through the gates and to the platform. Behind them were wild shouts and a pounding of boots upon cobbled stone. Mort glanced back once and saw a mob of boys at their heels. Soon, the newsboys who had gathered around Horace Greeley were gathered around them, surrounding them. They stared up at the boys waiting on the platform, expectant and yet threatening. Mort couldn't spot Skittery in the mass, but he did see Jack Kelly in the center of the crowd, standing tense with his arms crossed, his jaw set.

The man at the distribution window worked quickly. The newsboy who had greeted Mort was at the front of the line, while Mort was just a few heads behind. Relief flew through him when the newsboy bought his papers. It was happening_. We're making a stand_, Mort thought proudly. But then, when that first newsboy climbed down the steps and was met face to face with Jack Kelly, Mort watched in panic as the boy threw his stack of papers to the ground. His heart caught in his throat when the line just moved without pause; none of the boys bought papers after witnessing the fierce look in Jack Kelly's eyes. Instead, they stepped off the platform with their arms raised in surrender.

_Sometimes you have to stand up for yourself, right?_ came the memory of Ellie's words, giving him strength once again. Mort stood tall, walked up to the window and bought twenty papes. He followed the empty-handed boys down to the ground and while they were allowed past the mob of striking newsboys, Mort was not.

He felt his face grow hot. Mort stripped his cap from his head. His pulse was racing._ Sometimes you have to stand up for yourself, right? _He glared directly at Jack Kelly, who stood a couple of inches shorter than him.

"We got a big one, fellas," said someone from the crowd.

"Drop the papes."

"You a newsie or what?"

Mort tried to push through to the left. The short dark-haired boy blocked his way, shoving him back. Mort clenched his jaw and tried his right only to have another, one who bore a patch over his left eye, step into his path with a challenging stare. He turned around towards the platform and another newsie swiftly blocked his way.

To Mort's surprise, it was Skittery. Anger like he'd never felt before blazed through him upon meeting the Manhattan boy's eyes and contemptuous smirk, but Mort was only able to give him a brief glance, too preoccupied at the moment with trying to escape. He turned back towards Kelly. He saw another boy in blue trying to reason with Jack, but it was a futile attempt. The leader barely paid him any attention.

It was at that moment that Jack Kelly slapped the papers out of Mort's stunned hands. The papers fell to the ground pathetically. He clenched his jaw, working hard to match Kelly's scowl. Bending down to pick up his dirtied papers, Mort felt the pressure of the bodies around him. Silence. Tension.

All eyes on him. Anxiety.

Mort panicked. He wrapped his fingers around his papers and desperately pushed himself into the crowd, pushing for an exit. After a readying beat, the mob of newsboys erupted. Mort was pushed back, and he tried to climb up the platform instead, but someone had grabbed onto his shoulders. Bombarded from all sides, Mort was barely able to breathe. A blow sent him to his knees, hitting the ground hard. He caught a glimpse of Skittery standing over him before leaving to join his friends. Mort stayed there, crouched on all fours, for a while as the crowd overwhelmed him. Eventually, he managed to lift himself back onto his feet, grabbing at the wall to keep himself up. He staggered through the now celebrating newsboys, amidst flying newspaper pages, and out through the gates.

He jogged for several blocks, away from the anarchy at the distribution center, before leaning over to catch his breath, placing his hands on his knees for support. Mort had expected the confrontation, but not the chaotic response at the distribution center. Now he knew that the Manhattan newsies were serious about going on strike.

"Hey! Hey, you!" someone called from behind him.

Mort tensed. He turned his head slowly. A couple of boys, about five of them, ran towards him. He braced himself for a altercation, but instead they slowed down to a stop in front of him. Mort recognized them as some of the boys with whom he had waited in line at the distribution center.

"Hey, you all right?"

Mort managed a slow nod.

"Listen," said a boy standing to Mort's right, "We'll get to the point: you look like youse in a tight spot. So're we. Kelly's got it in his head that Pulitzer and Hearst will listen to us newsies if we go on strike." He took a breath and gestured to those around him. "As much as I like Jack, none of us can afford to go on strike. Bowler over there's got a sick sister and I don't have enough money to get me through the next day."

"We figure us newsies should stick together. You saw how they were back there," said another, referring to the pandemonium at the distribution center. "They ain't gonna back down. We got a better chance sellin' together than apart, you know?"

The newsboys spoke rapidly, as though desperate. But, fortunately for them, Mort was more than willing to join them. "Yeah," he agreed.

"All right," the first boy said, patting him on the shoulder. "The lot of us are stayin' in Midtown. Where youse from?"

"Queens."

"Ah. Evans, huh?"

Mort nodded again.

"That's not a bad place to be, considerin' everythin' here."

"I'll go to Midtown," Mort said abruptly.

The boy was taken aback by Mort's easy compliance, but bobbed his head in agreement. "We're headin' back now. Comin'?"

Mort followed their lead. Queens indeed wasn't a bad place to be – at the moment. Mort recalled the hushed discussion between Evans and Ricky earlier, where they laid out all the factors that were needed before they considered joining the strike. Mort therefore felt more secure with a group as adamantly against the strike as he was. He thought back on Queens, and Brooklyn and the Bronx, wondering if they really would join the strike. Then those thoughts led him to Ellie, the reason he wouldn't go on this strike. And he felt ashamed. By not being able to face up to Manhattan, he felt he had let Ellie down. Mort didn't think he could face her in his defeated state and yet at the same time, he needed to see her.

She was all he had.

* * *

Skittery fell listlessly back on his bunk, the springs of the old mattress squeaking in protest under his weight. It had been a long day and an even longer night, as the newsies of the Duane Street Lodging House waited hours for Jack's return. He returned all right, but Crutchy, who had been caught by those nasty Delancey brothers earlier at the distribution center, hadn't. The newsies had been worried, anxious, panicked, that one of their own had been taken - taken to the Refuge, to make matters worse. Jack had tried to placate them, but they knew better than to be calmed knowing that Crutchy was in the hands of Warden Snyder.

He let his mind wander back to the events of the day: the paper price, Jack's speech, Queens and Evans and Ricky, the debate whether to strike or not, their stand at _The World_ distribution center, and Crutchy. No, Skittery remembered hastily. There was also that Tall Kid. He had been surprised to see him in Manhattan, but he couldn't say he was disappointed that the Tall Kid had appeared. Skittery had honestly found great satisfaction in wiping the glaring beady eyes off that kid's face, not only because of the unprovoked confrontation in Queens, but also because of that spiteful look he had given to Skittery's friends, Race, Jack, and Blink.

Glaring into the darkness, Skittery still couldn't figure for the life of him what the hell that kid's problem was. After several minutes, he exhaled the tension from his tired body and pushed those thoughts away. It was pointless to wonder any more about that strange kid anyway. He doubted the kid would ever set foot on Manhattan again after the day's events.

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**Author's Note: **The reveal! A couple of chapters ago, I hinted that Mort was a minor character from the movie, and now we can place him (at least, I hope we can, if I wrote the scene clearly enough!) Many thanks to anyone who has been following along, and thank you, **stress**, for your review! I hope you know how grateful I am for all your feedback.


	9. Just Like Her Father

**Disclaimer**:_ Disney owns _Newsies_ and all the wonderful characters from the movie._

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**Eight.  
Just Like Her Father.**

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"Thank you for a wonderful dinner, ma'am."

"Of course, Adam. It was our pleasure," Mrs. Richardson answered with a practiced smile. Facing Adam's parents, Mr. and Mrs. Lewis, she said with a sweetness unbecoming of her, "Thank you for coming tonight."

"Oh, Linda, dear, we had such a lovely time. Your daughter has grown into a fine lady," Mrs. Lewis gushed as she peeked over Mrs. Richardson's shoulder.

Francesca, standing in the foyer behind her parents, managed a small smile at the comment.

The Richardsons bid the Lewis' goodbye and safe travels. After the front door closed shut, Mr. Richardson returned to his study and Mrs. Richardson turned to her daughter, studying her for a moment. "Is something the matter?" she asked, not softly and concernedly as a mother would do, but rather like a methodical mechanic trying to figure out why a piece of equipment suddenly stopped working. "I would hope you'd understand how important these dinners are for you and this family."

"Yes, Mother," Francesca said. "I do."

Ellie watched the exchange from the foyer. It seemed Mrs. Richardson finally noticed Francesca's odd behavior. Again, Francesca had not acted like herself for the dinner with the Lewis family. She was distant, uninterested, and even annoyed at some points during the night. It was so obvious to Ellie; she couldn't understand how Mrs. Richardson didn't catch the change in Francesca before.

Francesca began ascending the stairs and Ellie quickly followed; Agnes had informed her just minutes before that, for some mysterious reason, she was to again tend to Francesca as she got ready for bed. They entered Francesca's room without a word. There was a part of Ellie that wanted to ask Francesca what was going on with her lately, but she refrained, not wanting to have to deal with a series of snappish responses this late at night.

She had already prepared a warm basin for Francesca to wash. Ellie helped Francesca out of her pink corset dress—a pretty dress, but not one of Ellie's favorites considering its time-consuming nature with all the lacing and unlacing involved. After finally changing into her nightgown, Francesca moved towards the steaming water. Both girls walked about lethargically, the night having drained them both. Ellie went to the bed to pull back the covers, but a knock on the door stopped her. Both girls froze in their tracks when Mr. and Mrs. Richardson slowly, but purposefully, walked in. Mr. Richardson signaled Ellie out of the room. Ellie lowered her head in compliance and began towards the door. She stole a glance at Francesca and was surprised to see her imploring Ellie with her wide green eyes, imploring her to stay. Something about the alarmed way Francesca looked at her made Ellie immediately suspicious that a significant blow was about to be dealt. But Ellie didn't have a choice whether to stay or not, not with her parents in the room. Helpless, she left. She knew Francesca's life was not her concern. She knew, and so she tried to convince herself of the fact.

_But Francesca's eyes had been so troubled_, she thought worriedly. At the last moment, Ellie kept the door open a crack, just enough so she could see Francesca standing in the middle of the room.

Ellie plastered herself against the wall to support her weakened knees, knowing full well she was disobeying Mr. Richardson's orders. She heard a mumbled discussion from inside the room. Not wanting to eavesdrop – eavesdropping was strictly forbidden according to Agnes—Ellie focused intently on the portrait paintings hanging in the dimly lit hallway. She had always wondered how artists could duplicate a person's face and character with the use of a simple brush. She had wandered these halls as a young girl, scrutinizing every stroke and speckle of ink. The colors were muted but beautiful, and had fascinated—

"_No!_" she heard from inside Francesca's room. Ellie recognized the voice as Francesca herself. _What's going on?_ Alert now, Ellie straightened and reluctantly stole a peek through the gap of the doorway. What she saw brought a look of confused revelation to her face. Inside the room, Francesca stood rooted, her fists curled at her sides, tears streaming from her eyes. Ellie had never seen her cry before.

"What did you say?" came a severe voice. _Mrs. Richardson_, Ellie registered.

"I don't want to marry Adam Lewis," Francesca said feebly.

"The Lewis' are one of the most respected families in this city," Mr. Richardson said with finality. "We have drawn up an agreement."

"I don't care," said Francesca, biting her quivering lower lip.

"Francesca Richardson, you will do as your father says!" Mrs. Richardson reprimanded sharply.

At that moment, Francesca's gaze drifted to the door and to Ellie. There was such vulnerability etched in her face that Ellie couldn't help but feel her own heart sink. Consumed by pity, Ellie didn't hear the stomping footsteps until it was too late; the door to Francesca's room swung open and Mrs. Richardson stood in its massive frame. Fury emanated from her, so much so that Ellie inadvertently backed away several inches, her entire body stiffened with fear. Mr. Richardson stood behind his wife, and the same anger was evident in his eyes.

Panicked, her mind numb, Ellie drew on the first thing that popped into her head: "Tea," she blurted, her eyes still wide with alarm. "Would you like some tea?" she said dumbly.

"How dare you," Mrs. Richardson uttered almost disbelievingly, ignoring Ellie's attempt at saving herself.

"Sticking her nose in other people's business. I've said that it was a mistake to bring her into this house. She's just like her father," Mr. Richardson said frostily. Ellie's head turned abruptly towards him at his comment, taken aback, but he only stared back at her with furious dark eyes.

"How dare you stand here spying on my family," Mrs. Richardson said through her teeth. Her eyes never left Ellie's face and her arm rose ominously.

The hand would have come down with a sharp strike had not Francesca jumped in the way. "Mother, no!" she cried, her arms outspread. "Please. I asked her to stay."

Ellie stood dumbfounded behind her. "Francesca…" she whispered in a mix of awe and uncertainty.

Mrs. Richardson looked from Francesca to Ellie, her expression scornful and unconvinced. It seemed as though she was trying to decide who to direct her anger at. "Go to your quarters," she ordered Ellie in an eerily composed tone.

Ellie glanced at Francesca who was staring at the carpet. With no choice, Ellie took to the stairs, nearly stumbling down because of her nervous state. When she was out of range, Ellie breathed a deep sigh of relief; she was let off more easily than she had anticipated. _Thanks to Francesca_.

Walking through the foyer to the dining room, planning for the kitchen and the back stairs to the servants' quarters, Ellie's shuffling feet came to a halting stop; Agnes met her at the entrance to the kitchen, arms crossed, her face hard. Ellie miserably knew the servant head heard the heated exchange from the landing above. She also knew some punishment awaited her – this had become routine through the years - so wordlessly, she walked into the kitchen. Thought bracing herself for the worst, her shoulders still dropped at the sight before her. A pile of unwashed dishes and bowls from the dinner waited at the counter. Ellie was to wash them all.

It was a job usually meant for two people. Unenthusiastically, she picked up a dish and began. As she worked, scrubbing and drying, her mind drifted. What had Mr. Richardson meant when he said Ellie was just like her father? Did he know who her father was? _Where_ he was? Ellie barely remembered anything before her life with the Richardson family. There were fragments, pieces of memories, and there was sadness, loss. Emptiness, a sorrowful face. Confusion. And snow. Lots of snow. Ellie never put together a clear picture, but the emotions were there. And as always, she pushed them away before the unexplainable tears came. There was no point in trying to remember a past life, so she forced herself to think on other things. It was for the best, as Ellie probably just misheard Mr. Richardson.

It wasn't difficult to refocus her thoughts, because something else was bothering her: Francesca. She had never, ever stood up for Ellie before - and Ellie was strangely touched by the act. Come to think of it, Francesca had never stood up for herself either. But the girl had done exactly that when she told her parents she didn't want to marry Adam Lewis. It was a night of firsts for her. She was acting out of character, from which Ellie figured one thing: something was _definitely_ wrong with the Richardson's daughter. But what was it? For weeks now, Ellie had noticed the oddities but she was never able to figure the cause for them. Ellie pursed her lips in thought. Why didn't Francesca want to marry Adam Lewis? He seemed like a nice enough boy. And he was much better suited for her than that Mr. Mason.

She shrugged. She put away all the dishes in their respective cupboards and wiped at the wet counter with a cloth. Ellie didn't know how much time had passed, but she guessed that it was past twelve and couldn't wait to wash up and get to bed.

_Thump_.

Ellie twisted around in surprise at the sound. It had come from outside, in the backyard. Goosebumps crept under her skin. _A robber_, her paranoid nerves called out. She hoped, though, that it was just some poor lost animal. _Please, please just be some poor lost animal_. Eyes wide and alert, Ellie looked about, hopping nervously from foot to foot. She finally grabbed a skillet in both hands before tiptoeing towards the window.

Peeling away at the light lace curtain, Ellie glanced out tentatively. It was too dark to make out anything. Despite squinting and searching, Ellie saw nothing. Then, thanks to a soft breeze, she saw it, swaying to the current right in front of her. A rope? No, a makeshift rope. It dawned on Ellie that the rope was actually made of tied bed sheets. If she could see it dangling from this kitchen window, then that meant…

That meant that the rope of bed sheets was coming from Francesca's room. As soon as Ellie drew that conclusion, she saw from the corner of her eye a shadow darting across the backyard. Startled, she jumped back from the window, nearly dropping the skillet. Was that Francesca? Her instincts told her that it was. Ellie was shocked at first, wondering where on earth the dense girl was heading to at this time of night. Then that shock turned into weariness. Ellie closed her eyes rubbed at her temple. "Please don't tell me she's doing what I think she's doing," Ellie mumbled helplessly.

Her nerves were so shot—from the encounter with Mr. and Mrs. Richardson and now this—that she was beginning to get irrationally irritated. _I _just_ want to go to bed_, _for goodness sakes_, she thought despondently. But no, she had to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and now she had to deal with Francesca. Again, for what seemed like the millionth time in her life.

This shouldn't be her problem. She could just let Francesca run away, but Ellie knew that the consequent guilt would overwhelm her. There would be a long ordeal with the parents that she didn't want to deal with either. She didn't want to admit that there was a small part of her that was curious, that maybe, she could discover the reason for Francesca's recent behavior. And there was the small matter of fact that Francesca saved Ellie tonight; she couldn't just turn her back on the Richardson girl after that. Trudging to the hooks on the wall, she resignedly grabbed her gray shawl and trudged her way back to the door. She wondered briefly if she should take the skillet with her, then decided against it, feeling a little silly for even having thought about it. Stepping into the cool summer night, Ellie logically figured that she'd just see what Francesca was up to, chide her for being so foolish, and bring her back to Number Nine Ivy Street. It should take no more than an hour.

Besides, how much trouble could Francesca possibly get into?

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**Author's Note:**_ We're heading towards the first curve in Ellie's story. I had this (and the next two chapters) written out before, so that I'd have no excuse for not updating when the school semester begins. Classes have begun now, but I hope I can still continue writing out this surge of motivation._

_Thank you's to __**stress**__ and __**chaoticmom**__ for your encouraging reviews of the last chapter! To chaoticmom – your memory's not shot! :) This story is a rewrite of one I started writing about three years ago, called "Thank You."_


	10. It's Been a Long Night

**Disclaimer**:_ Disney owns _Newsies_ and all the wonderful characters from the movie._

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**Nine.  
It's Been a Long Night.**

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Francesca was moving faster than Ellie had ever seen her move. Ellie had to make sure to put some distance between them, even though Francesca didn't seem at all concerned with her surroundings, not bothering to look back or around once. _Unwise_, Ellie thought, shivering. She was being paranoid, she knew, but she couldn't help it; Ellie kept feeling as though someone were following or watching her. Even though she was the one who was doing the following. She wrapped her arms around her body, pulling her shawl closer. Considering the speed at which Francesca was walking, she seemed to know exactly where she was going. But where?

Ellie lost sight of Francesca several times in the darkness, and every time she did, panic rose inside her; she just hoped she herself wouldn't get lost trailing the Richardson's daughter. Dimly, she realized that that would be impossible. _Why?_ she asked herself abruptly. _Because you know these streets_, her mind answered. And then the flickering candle light of uncertainty became a flame of understanding. Ellie knew exactly where Francesca was going: she was heading for the park. The same park that Ellie went to many times before. The park where she had first met Mort and chased away those bullies. She knew these streets very well.

The park wasn't far, but it seemed to take an eternity this time around. The wait was making her anxiety rise to a screaming pitch. She shouldn't be out at this time of night. She shouldn't be part of Francesca's foolishness—it would only bring her more problems, something she couldn't afford so soon considering the trouble she already caused tonight. She would, as Agnes had said on many occasions, get kicked out of the house for sure. _"And then what'll you do?"_ Agnes had asked her years ago. _"You'll have nowhere to go, no one to turn to. You're going to be on your own and it's a frightening world out there."_

Ellie shook her head to clear those thoughts. Now wasn't the time to think on how frightening the world was, not when it was so dark and quiet and oddly chilly…

She stopped.

And then she ducked behind a cluster of barrels and crates. She hadn't realized that she was at the park until she saw them sitting on the bench. Them, Ellie registered immediately, her eyes opening so wide that tears formed at the rims. She managed to snap out of her shock, blinking rapidly as she called back her senses. Sneaking a peak above the crate, Ellie saw the familiar park, a lining of trees fencing around it. It really was more of a square considering its size, but it was just one of those community things when a name just stuck: this one was casually referred to as the "Sitting Park." True to its name, several benches were scattered around the small plot of land, and on one, there was Francesca - sitting next to a boy around her own age. A lamppost by the bench illuminated the scene, and the summer fireflies danced around them.

Francesca had come out to meet a boy. And it wasn't difficult, then, to put together the rest of the puzzle: Francesca's off behavior, her refusal to marry Adam Lewis, her questions about love. It was all because of this mysterious boy. Ellie sank back down to the ground. She wasn't near enough to be certain, but he didn't seem like one of the rich boys the Richardsons sought so fanatically. His clothes and shoes were covered in a layer of sandy dust, and his hair was uncombed. There was a sort of carelessness in his pose that the stiff wealthy society didn't commonly exude.

Ellie had planned to dissuade Francesca from running away and drag her back to the house if necessary. But she hadn't expected this. To intrude on such an intimate moment, which Ellie uncomfortably realized she was already doing, would be awkward, to say the least. After a few minutes of internal debate, Ellie decided to give up. There was no way on earth she would walk up to those two, shamefully reveal herself as a spy, and force them apart. It just wasn't her place. She wasn't Francesca's mother, after all.

She took several more seconds to let the decision sink in. When the opportune moment came to make a quiet escape, Ellie shifted her balance to her feet, still crouched behind the shadows of the barrels.

It was at that instant when the silent night was interrupted by a thunder of pounding feet upon cobblestone. Stunned by the sounds, Ellie fell back onto her rear with a sharp gasp. She searched frantically around her to locate where the sounds had come from. But there were only empty streets in front of her. She almost didn't want to look back over the crates, half-knowing that the footsteps must have stopped there.

_Of all nights to make all of the wrong decisions_, Ellie thought, chastising herself. Moving her weight to her knees, she slowly poked her head out several discreet inches. Upon seeing the sight before her, Ellie's fingers tightened on the edges of the crate as tension gripped her body.

A group of seven or eight people surrounded Francesca and the boy at the bench. Francesca was clutching onto the boy's right arm in fear. The boy himself stood rigid, angry, his furious gaze fixed on one figure among the group. Tracing his stare, Ellie focused on the person, too; he stood by the lamppost, arms crossed, his face hidden by an oversized cap. Ellie didn't realize her mistake until the figure spoke.

"How nice of ya to visit Queens again." The voice was hoarse and laced with roughness, but it was feminine. The figure was a girl. The people surrounding the pair were all girls. "I thought I told ya never to set foot on this part of Queens again," she said coldly. All pleasantries were gone now. Even Ellie, at her distance, felt the air chill a few degrees.

"You don't own this place, Blade," the boy said, trying to filter the anger from his voice.

The girl he had called Blade - obviously the leader of the group—stiffened and took a threatening stride forward. She scrutinized Francesca with a contemptuous sneer. "This is it?" Francesca inched back. "This why ya came? You risked comin' here… for this?" She laughed.

The boy's jaw tightened. "Leave her out of this."

"Leave her out? She's the reason we're here, ain't she? She's the reason ya turned your back on me, ain't she? Ya two-timin' bastard," she spat.

"I never –"

"You're a liar. Everythin' ya ever said were lies. I shoulda known betta than to trust your sort, but I know betta now. You betrayed me." She removed something from her shirt pocket. "No one betrays me." She snapped her fingers, and suddenly all the girls were wielding clubs and small knives.

Francesca moved in front of the boy. "Don't you dare lay a finger on him," she said, and she sounded remarkably like her mother. But it wasn't enough to deter the gang of girls. They advanced, the circle becoming dangerously smaller and smaller as they moved towards Francesca. The boy protectively pulled her in towards him.

Ellie rose to her feet without thinking. Tentatively, her nerves taut, she began towards the group in the park, crossing the street. She didn't know what she was going to do or say as the dull hum of her rapid heartbeat reverberated in her ears. She just knew she had to do _something_—Francesca was about to get herself killed! So Ellie walked. She forced her feet to march onwards, despite the bubble of panicked hysteria that was rising inside her. Then upon feeling the dry grass beneath the thin soles of her shoes, a strange rush of adrenaline came over her. Her mind was still drawing complete blanks, but her body was ready to jump at the slightest movement. Maybe she could charge in and pull the two out before any of those girls could even comprehend what was happening, she thought hazily, panic whiting out all logic and reasoning. It wasn't until the last moments, as she got closer to the group, that she threw all good judgment out and decided her best chance was in creating mass confusion and distraction.

Somewhere in the dim recesses of her mind, she imagined the people she feared most—Mrs. and Mr. Richardson—and the people who never backed down from any challenge – Agnes and Glenna. If she was going to have a shot at getting Francesca out, she would have to channel their audacity and their strength. _I've done this before_, Ellie thought, trying to give herself confidence. _I can do this_. So without another second's thought - because if she did think for another second, she surely would have turned and ran - Ellie reproachfully exclaimed, "Francesca!" and stomped towards the gang.

Heads turned at her intrusion. Pushing away the sudden urge to turn and run, Ellie squeezed between two girls and stopped in front of a shocked Francesca and the puzzled boy. "Do you have your head on straight?" she scolded loudly, pulling off an Agnes. "What is this? Who is _this_? Do you know what time it is? Nevermind," she babbled in a one-sided conversation, flailing her arms around as though she'd taken leave of her senses. She clasped Francesca's hand in her own and was just about to pull her out of the circle when the leader of the gang stopped her.

"Who are _you_?" Blade asked in a clipped tone.

Ellie stopped dead in her tracks. _This girl's bodyguard_, she thought inanely.

"What?"

Ellie bit her lip and grimaced, realizing she had just verbalized her thoughts. "Nothing," she said quickly.

"You're nothin'?" she said, impatience apparent in her tone.

"Yes," Ellie agreed hastily, only vaguely realizing she wasn't making any sense. She met the leader's glare head-on, and inevitably cringed back slightly, feeling the full blast of the unmistakable presence of a superior. This Blade emanated power and control and elicited fear from those around her. Blade only had a few insignificant inches over her, but Ellie felt incredibly small.

Blade wasn't in any mood for games tonight. "Is this another girl of yours?" she asked furiously, her question directed at the boy.

With the leader momentarily distracted, Ellie snuck a few steps out from the center of the circle, pulling Francesca with her. "Have you lost your mind?" Francesca hissed, though she allowed herself to be pulled. Ellie in turn sent her a look of equal meaning. Was Francesca seriously questioning Ellie's sanity right now, when the two were caught in a life or death situation?

The two made to move out from the watch of the surrounding girls, but as they did, the circle moved with them; Ellie's intentions, unhappily, were much too obvious and any escape route seemed, at the moment, impossible.

"Just how," Blade began chillingly, "did ya think of gettin' your friends out?" The leader's light blue eyes bore into Ellie.

Ellie swallowed. "Didn't think that far yet," she mumbled feebly.

"What'd you say?"

Ellie's mind was so blank she couldn't even muster a semblance of a response. "Uh... that is..."

Blade sighed. "I've had enough of this," she said almost resignedly. Then swiftly, she held a knife beneath Ellie's jaw. The movement was so rapid that Ellie didn't even have the chance to react. She had, however, stopped breathing. Blade stared at her, her head inclined to the side in a strange animal-like way. "Ya made a mistake tryin' to play the hero."

Despite the frantic desperation she felt, Ellie's next words came out unwaveringly. Her gaze shifted to the side as she pretended to hear something. "They must be coming," she managed to say, though it came out as a whisper.

The knife under her chin pressed deeper into her skin. "_Who_?" Blade said, daring her to speak.

"The cops." Blade's nostrils flared in impatience at her terse response. Ellie tried to focus on making her mouth move rather than on the sharp glinting object pushed ominously against her. "The…" She took a breath. "The whole police squad should be on their way."

Right then, Blade's gaze left the circle and searched the streets beyond the park. Now was their chance. Ellie pushed Blade back with the strength of both arms. The boy was inherently quick in his movements, grabbing Francesca and shoving past the circle of stunned girls. Ellie followed immediately after and the three raced out of the park, taking to the streets. They hadn't had much of a head start and the gang was now ferociously at their heels. The boy led the way, hauling Francesca by her elbow while Ellie tried to keep up with his long strides. He made a sharp turn into a narrow street, then another, and yet another, this time into a cramped alleyway.

The three doubled over, trying to catch their breath. They sat crouched in that dank, grimy alley for several minutes without exchanging a single word. Tears of shock and relief filled Francesca's eyes. She dabbed at them stiffly before finally turning to Ellie. "You followed me," she accused. "You had absolutely no right."

Perhaps it was because she had been working on her feet all week, perhaps it was because she didn't get enough sleep, or because so much had happened in the past couple of hours. Whatever the reason was, Ellie finally erupted in anger. "You've always been so ungrateful!" she whispered fiercely, aware still that they were hiding from Blade and her gang and that raising her voice would be foolish. Her words, though hushed, tumbled out rapidly and intensely: "Do you know how many times I've risked my neck for you? Every time you do something stupid, I get in trouble. Has it ever crossed your mind that I don't want to be here? I don't want to be sitting in this – this dirty alley, and, and, hiding from those vicious girls! Why do you always do this? I don't know, I give up trying to figure you out. I am - am putting my foot down now and this is the absolute last time I ever help you," she huffed. Despite letting go of the pent up emotions, the rant didn't have quite the calming effect Ellie would have liked. She took a deep breath, trying to cool herself down.

Francesca sulked for a few moments. "Why did you follow me, then?" she asked lamely, staring at the ground.

Ellie sighed – her rant, though hushed, seemed to have robbed her of any energy she had. "I thought you were trying to run away," she explained.

"I wasn't running away."

"I know that now," Ellie replied curtly. Then, feeling a bit remorseful for her outburst and snappish reply, she said by way of apology, "It's been a long night." She wiped back the cold sweat from her forehead and leaned her head against the brick building, exhausted.

The boy, who had been keeping a look out, turned back and whispered to Ellie, "Where're the bulls?"

"The what?"

"The bulls—you said the police squad was comin'."

"Oh," Ellie said, recalling hazily what she had said to distract Blade. "I lied."

The boy nodded in approval. "Good one." He poked his head back out again, but this time his lookout didn't last long. "They're comin' this way," he said, his voice strained. He grasped Francesca's hand protectively and proceeded to murmur words of comfort.

Ellie looked away, but not fast enough to miss the look of sheer terror in Francesca's eyes change into one of utter adoration. _She really likes him_, Ellie realized. Then something about the scene she was trying to ignore—but sensed from the corner of her eye, anyway—prompted an idea. As soon as Ellie realized the consequences of that idea, she tried to push it away. But then she made the mistake of taking a brief glance at Francesca who, after being held at knifepoint, was desperately trying to hold herself together.

If they were caught by Blade, and who knew what would happen to them if they were, it was Francesca who would suffer the most. She was a famous Richardson. She had a mother and a father. She had wealth, a future, and respect. If she got hurt or worse—Ellie dared not think on how much worse—there were hundreds of people who would care. And now Francesca had love. Ellie, in comparison, didn't have much to lose. She had no qualms about who she was. She was just a servant girl: easily replaceable and not nearly as valuable.

Goodness, she was incredibly tired all of a sudden. She waited hopefully for someone to come up with another plan and when none came, Ellie covered her face with her hands, as she couldn't believe what she was about to do even as she made the decision.

With a resolute sigh, she said, "I'll go."

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**Author's Note:**_ Thanks to stress for your feedback of the last chapter!_


	11. You Ain't No Hero

**Disclaimer**:_ Disney owns _Newsies_ and all the wonderful characters from the movie._

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**Ten.  
You Ain't No Hero**

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"What?"

"I'll go," Ellie repeated.

"You really have lost your mind," Francesca stated seriously, comprehending Ellie's meaning. "You aren't possibly thinking of going out _there_. They'll see you! And then… and then what if you get hurt?"

"Nevermind me."

"But—"

"Please, Francesca. If something happens to you and your parents find out I was with you tonight…"

"They won't find out," Francesca promised.

"No, they won't," Ellie agreed reluctantly, "as long as you get home without a single scratch on you."

"I'll go," the boy interrupted, attempting to silence the two. "I'll distract 'em, and you guys can make a run for it."

How the coward in Ellie wished she could let him go instead, and she felt her cheeks redden with shame at the thought. "I'd like if you made sure Francesca got home safely," she managed. Of course Ellie wanted to go home, too, but so much had gone wrong tonight and she was determined to make amends. The regrets had been mounting up to this point: if only she'd stopped Francesca from leaving the house. If only she'd had the courage to break the two apart and force each to go home. If only she'd brought that ridiculous skillet to defend herself. If only.

So she wouldn't let the boy take the risk. If he endangered himself, Francesca would undoubtedly be reduced into a state of terror. Besides, in all practicality he was faster than Ellie, and in her mind, had a better chance at evading the gang and making it to Ivy Street.

But the boy would have none of it. "You can't go," he said. "If she catches you…" He paused to think. "Listen, you can't stay in Queens. It ain't safe here for you anymore."

"What are you talking about?" Francesca asked, concern etched in her face.

He sighed. "Blade thinks she owns this part of Queens. She don't like losing, in anything, to nobody," he explained. "She likes things her way and they didn't go her way tonight. Ya gotta understand… by standin' up to her, you and me, we just challenged her place as the leader of the gang. So she ain't gonna let us go just like that. Say she doesn't catch you now. She'll keep huntin' for you until she finds you. And then…" he trailed off. They all heard the voices from the street. The gang was closing in on them.

They were too close. If the three of them wasted any more time arguing, someone from the gang was bound to spot them. Ellie gathered her bearings and prayed for courage. "We don't have time. Take her home, and _please_ be careful," she pleaded. Before the either of them could protest, Ellie jumped out of the alleyway, leaving Francesca and the boy in a frozen state of apprehension.

The gang hadn't been looking her way when she revealed herself. Ellie took off running in the opposite direction, hoping they'd hear her footsteps. Her nervous energy changed into adrenaline as she raced onto the main road.

They took the bait. Ellie chanced a brief glance over her shoulder to see a pack of livid girls chasing after her. She had to lead them as far away from Ivy Street as possible, so Ellie headed towards the waterfront. She tried to plan her next move, what she would do once she reached the East River, but she couldn't focus on anything other than trying to stay ahead of Blade's gang. She willed her legs to move faster, but the more she tried, the heavier her legs became.

In her flustered haste, Ellie didn't recognize where she was until she slowed down her pace: she had arrived at the industrialized section of Astoria by the river. The sounds of footsteps had been fading and, figuring that she had managed to put some distance between herself and the gang, she decided to find a place to hide. She looked about her frenetically, but she was surrounded only by chained warehouses and locked facilities. Ellie realized too late that she made a mistake turning into this part of town as she was now trapped in a maze of small factories and buildings.

She stopped suddenly—no longer could she hear the gang running behind her. She spun around, frowning and straining to listen. Her breath became ragged with fear. She heard nothing. Terrifying nothing. Did they give up trying to catch her? _Maybe they were sidetracked by someone else_, Ellie thought dreadfully. Had they found Francesca? The thought put Ellie over the edge of distress. She raked her hand through her hair, her face twisted into an expression of anguish; she was lost, she had lost, she had lost Francesca, _what do I do? What should I do?_ Moisture welled in her eyes as the cacophony of jumbled uncertainties cried incessantly in her mind. Something snapped inside her, and some form of rationality was able to pull through the clutter, and Ellie decided to go back to Number Nine - she had to know if Francesca made it home.

"You didn't really think you'd get away that easy, did ya?"

Ellie whirled on her heel, shock electrifying every nerve in her body. She hadn't heard them approaching, but she was now met with four scowling girls. Amongst them was Blade, who stood apart and in front. It was she who had spoken to Ellie. Ellie began to back away gradually, trying to put some distance between them and her and to find a way out of the aisle of buildings. But then she heard a soft crunch of gravel from behind, and like a cornered prey, she knew she was surrounded. They moved in on her.

Ellie couldn't move now, couldn't think straight. In a matter of seconds, Blade stood an arm's length away, and Ellie just stood there, dumbstruck. Part of her was ready to surrender - what other choice did she have? The other part - the more stubborn, defiant part that was angry for being caught up in affairs not her own - was calling to fight back, and fishing desperately for a scheme: it was pure survival instinct trying valiantly to take effect. It was times like these when she wished she were as clever as Nancy, as proud as Glenna, and even as tough as Agnes.

Blade fingered the small knife in her hand, chuckling disdainfully. "You got guts, I'll give ya that. But you ain't no hero, and you're gonna pay for gettin' in the way of finishin' off your pals," she said. With an unnerving smile, she added tantalizingly, "Unless ya tell me where they went." Ellie kept tightlipped. "Have it your way," Blade sighed, after waiting a few moments for a response. Then for some reason, she scrutinized Ellie closely, a look of curious interest in her face. "You ain't dressed like a princess. I'm guessin' you ain't that, uh… what's her name?"

"Francesca Richardson," one of her followers supplied.

"That's right… pretty little Francesca Richardson. I'm guessin' you ain't her best friend from the looks of ya. You're a nobody, ain't ya?" She stood inches before Ellie, her voice dropping to an ominous whisper. "You know what we do to nobodies that make the mistake of messin' with us?"

Ellie had been, stupidly, waiting for an answer when Blade shoved her back roughly. Ellie lost her balance and though she didn't fall back, in that short moment of losing stability, Blade's arm, the frightful one wielding the knife, came slashing down. Ellie felt a searing sting on her upper right arm; on impulse, she grabbed at the burning spot and gasped harshly from the pain. Her head was spinning as a haze of white blurred her vision. She wanted nothing more than to lie down until the world stopped whirling. She somehow distinguished shadowy forms moving in towards her. In an act stemming from pure survival instinct, Ellie made an ungainly dash forward, clutching onto her right arm. She felt the brushes of fingertips against her as the girls, caught off guard, unsuccessfully clamored to seize her.

She'd never sprinted so fast in her life. Desperation fueled her. The path ahead of her was blocked off with a fence, but Ellie didn't stop running. She braced herself for the pain as she released her arm. Grimacing, she launched up and grasped onto the fence, rapidly climbing her way to the top. She swung her legs over and, upon seeing the gang only several feet away, she jumped off. Ellie landed limply onto her feet and fell onto her back. She heard voices; they were shouting all sorts of profanities. She lay there for a second, swallowing back hard, and forced herself back onto her feet, staggering up. Putting pressure on her arm, she continued running. Ellie couldn't see—there was no light in this closed off area. She had no idea where she was, surrounded by a conglomeration of metal and machines and large pipes.

She ran until she was unable to withstand the dizzying pain any longer. Cold sweat fell along the planes of her face. Ellie then stopped, searching for a place to hide. Quickly, she crawled into a small crevice between two immense parallel pipelines. And there she lay, curled into a ball, as she finally gave in to the pain that shook up her body and drifted off into unconsciousness. She vaguely heard the rough voices again, but they seemed so unimportant now, so far away.

So far away…

* * *

It was still dark.

Ellie had woken up with a violent start, shivering and confused. The feelings of fright and anxiety had returned swiftly, though, hitting her with full force. She had feared that Blade and the others were still nearby, waiting, but after nearly half an hour of silence, Ellie gathered the courage to move. She had struggled out of her hiding place as her entire body was sore and her arm was still throbbing. She supposed that, by the looks of the sky, she had been asleep for only a couple of hours.

She put pressure on her arm. Ellie walked towards Ivy Street now, and though she knew she needed to get to Number Nine before Agnes or the Richardsons woke, her heavy, weary legs refused to move faster than a snail's pace.

As Ellie drew closer to familiar territory, rounding the corner to the Richardson's neighborhood, a blissful sense of unreality washed over her. The events of the past night felt like a strange dream, and when she thought back on everything that happened, all of it seemed so ridiculously absurd that Ellie wanted to laugh. Never had she gotten tangled up in so much trouble in one night—even Ellie, who had obviously been disciplined her fair share by Agnes and the Richardsons, had her limits.

She didn't realize how far away she'd traveled from the Richardson's home. By the time she arrived at their front yard, the sky had lightened a bit; the sun was rising on the horizon, and she was running out of time. She let herself in quietly through the backdoor and pushed her body up the stairs. It was too early for anyone to be up yet. But upon entering the small room she shared with Anne, she saw Anne wide awake and Francesca sitting by the window. Both jumped from their seated positions when they heard the door creak and saw Ellie come in.

Francesca approached her first, stomping towards her purposefully. "_Where have you been_?" she cried, emphasizing each word.

"Keep it down," Ellie hushed. "Agnes is a light sleeper."

"Ellie, we were so wor—what _happened_ to your shirt!" Anne exclaimed and gently took hold of Ellie's arm. "You're hurt!"

"It's nothing, Anne," she said with a weak smile.

"Nothing? This doesn't look like nothing, Ellie," Anne said anxiously.

"It's nothing," she reassured more firmly.

Ellie strode past the two girls to the closet. Kneeling down, she lugged out an old brown valise from the bottom right corner of the closet and, upon unzipping the bag, began to fill it with her clothes.

She hadn't thought much on this moment or the consequences of it. All she had thought on—all she knew—was that she needed to leave Queens. The boy had warned Ellie and Francesca that Blade would come after them. And judging by Blade's actions last night, the boy's warning was to be taken seriously.

Though Francesca was the one who instigated Blade's fury, it was Ellie who fanned the flame; she had stopped Blade from hurting Francesca and the boy, and then went on to escape her grasp not once, but twice. There had been no doubt in the boy's dark counsel: Blade _would_ come after them. While Francesca had the protection of her home and parents, Ellie had no such safeguard: there was no way she would be able to conceal herself inside the house all day, every day—not with her responsibilities to the Richardson family. If Ellie stayed, she would be putting herself and Francesca at risk.

Maybe she was being paranoid. But she could not get herself to shake off the grave look that had been in the boy's eyes, nor the deadly stare in Blade's.

"Ellie, what's going on?" Anne pleaded. She eyed the valise. "What are you doing?"

Francesca came and clamped her hands over Ellie's, startling her. Francesca started to say something but stopped, as though she didn't really know what to say. She let go quickly. "Where will you go?" she asked softly. Clearly, Francesca, too, had been reflecting on the boy's words.

Looking down uncertainly, Ellie resumed packing. "I don't know," she replied just as quietly, about to toss in an old cotton shirt into her bag. She paused and ripped the shirt apart instead, tearing off a neat strip, and wrapped the cloth around the length of her arm. Though the bleeding had stopped from the pressure she put on it through the night, the wound was still fresh, and she needed to make sure not to aggravate it. Ellie tied the ends tightly. She zipped up the valise and looked apologetically towards Anne, who was confused beyond words.

Ellie struggled to her feet. An awkward silence fell among the trio of girls. "I have to leave before they wake up," Ellie explained. It was clear to all who "they" were – Mr. and Mrs. Richardson and Agnes.

Anne made a move to stop Ellie, but in all her confusion, she second-guessed her action and checked herself. Still trying to figure out the situation, she looked from Ellie to Francesca and back, but she could determine nothing from the two's strange behavior. Francesca stood unmoving, but her face demonstrated an inner debate. And Ellie, feeling the stinging tears threatening to fall, gave a weak nod to both girls and walked out the door. She scuttled down the steps, into the kitchen and out the back. There, standing between the door jambs, she paused briefly, her fingers brushing against the wood and brick of Number Nine.

"Goodbye," Ellie whispered over her shoulder.

She rushed out the backyard onto Ivy Street before she could change her mind.

* * *

**Author's Note: **_It's been a long while since I've looked at this story, but I thought it was about time to release the conclusion to Ellie's encounter with Blade. According to my dismal attempt at an outline, Ellie will be bumping_—_quite literally_—_into a certain newsboy come Chapter 12. Thank you's to chaoticmom and Adren for your reviews!_


	12. Last Room to Your Right

**Disclaimer**: Disney owns Newsies and all the wonderful characters from the movie.

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**Eleven.  
Last Room to Your Right**

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The body has a funny way of guiding itself after years of practice and routine, even when the mind is too preoccupied to manage it. Ellie didn't register that she was heading towards the marketplace until she reached it. It wasn't until she stood at the end of that block of the marketplace, already teeming with sellers and buyers, when Ellie realized she had no idea where to go. She left the Richardson's home without a plan, her only focus on getting out of the house. Though she now treaded through the familiar marketplace, she couldn't help but feel lost without a reason to be there, without a place to return to.

It didn't help that Ellie was unfamiliar with any place outside of Queens. Her possible options included Brooklyn to the south of Queens, Manhattan to the west, Bronx to the north. Indecisively, she ventured back and forth between those choices, knocking at her temple as if to shake out an arbitrary answer. Bronx was the first to be crossed off, simply because she couldn't recall ever stepping foot in the borough. Despite the protests of her exhausted body, walking to Brooklyn was not impossible. However, Ellie felt more confident about being able to find her way in Manhattan, though that really wasn't saying much. She could probably count the number of times she visited the island on one hand. But it was better than getting hopelessly lost in Brooklyn, right?

Manhattan it was, then, she decided. She thought to look for the lodging place Anne had talked about, though Ellie's memory of its location was fuzzy at best. Anne had stayed at a Girl's Home in Manhattan before finding work with the Richardsons, and she had occasionally shared stories of her life before crossing the East River and stepping into Number Nine Ivy Street. As she had solemnly described, Anne had held numerous jobs throughout her years to be able to pay for food and a bed at night. It was a life Ellie could hardly imagine for herself having had both since she could remember—though she had come precariously close to losing those privileges when she made a mess of things on many an occasion.

Ellie headed for the ferry dock by the East River, which was almost in the same direction from whence she came just an hour before. Apprehension bubbled inside as she drew closer to the docks, knowing that she had last seen Blade only several blocks away. Ellie took a steadying breath to relieve her worries; _I have the sun by my side. They wouldn't dare come for me in broad daylight_, Ellie noted, trying to reassure herself. She stood a little straighter. _There are a crowd of people here, then all I'd have to do is yell for help and someone will have to hear me and—_

"What's that, miss?"

Ellie yelped, whirling about in surprise. "Yes?" she let out dumbly, facing a gruff-looking man standing behind her.

He gave her a suspicious glance. "You all right?"

She blinked. Belatedly, she realized that her panicked state had her thinking out loud.

Evidently, he thought her insane. He shook his head and clucked his tongue, as if it were a darn shame for someone to have gone mad at such a young age.

Men and women gathered in large throngs along the docks, preparing themselves for another long day of labor. After waiting in line, buying her ticket, and squeezing through the masses, Ellie found herself painfully crammed amongst the boarders on the overcrowded ferry. There was barely enough room to expand her lungs. Several passengers, crabby from lack of sleep perhaps, sent her contemptuous glances when Ellie tried to maneuver out of her crammed spot. Ellie bit her lip and kept her eyes on the floor. Thankfully, the dreadful ride was brief for the ferry soon made berth on the other side of the river. Ellie landed on the island of Manhattan. She was swept out with the torrent of passengers as everyone hurriedly dispersed to their destinations. When the crowd dissipated, Ellie was left standing idly, wondering where to move next.

She knew what she was looking for, at least. After a round of aimless circling about the streets and sidewalks, Ellie found herself heading downtown. All the while, she searched through her memory, trying to grasp at one particular conversation she had with Anne several months ago, when her friend mentioned the streets and described the shops around the Girl's Home.

She must have been walking for close to two hours. Ellie clutched her valise tightly in both hands as she bumped shoulders with countless people, struggling to make her way through the congested city streets. Heading down First Avenue, she worried that she was a strange sight to passerbys as she constantly craned her neck this way and that, trying to look out for lodgings.

She suddenly remembered the dark stories about Lower Manhattan—stories of gang wars and fierce battles many years ago—stories she had overheard Mr. Richardson and his guests discuss; that certainly wasn't the memory she'd been searching for. It was when she considered turning around and heading down another street when she spotted it: a small, humble sign on the corner building to her left, which simply read: "Girl's Lodging Home."

The sun, the crowd, and now luck, seemed to be on her side this morning.

Ellie tiptoed up the steps, composed herself, gripped the knob, and pushed the door open.

She walked timidly into what she presumed was the lobby and waiting room. There was seating against the wall, and on the walls hung a few charming idyllic paintings. The only light poured in through the open windows, the linen curtains floating in gently with the warm summer breeze. Ellie had been so preoccupied with studying her surroundings that she didn't take notice of the small woman sitting behind the counter.

"May I help you, Miss?"

Ellie jumped at the voice, her head snapping towards the elderly woman. She let out the surprised breath that had gathered in her throat. And then she laughed, an unnecessarily loud and awkward laugh that suggested her nervous state and how silly she felt for being so jumpy.

"Yes, please," Ellie said tentatively. "I… I need a place to stay for the night. Or two," she said choppily, unsure of how to proceed when the woman took to studying her.

The woman eyed her astutely. She didn't seem the type of person who missed much, with steely blue eyes, fine graying hair tucked precisely into a bun, and an immaculate, crisp buttoned white shirt. She nodded and _mm-hmm_'d slowly. "I trust you're not a runaway," she said finally.

Ellie froze. What would happen if she answered yes? Would the woman take her by the collar and kick her out? Because, circumstances aside, she _had_ run away from her employers.

"No," she heard herself say. Then again, she didn't run away—if one considered Francesca her employer, that is, and Francesca was very much aware of Ellie's departure.

"Well, dear," the woman began, "you're in luck. We just got an opening this morning. Lodging is six cents a night, dear, and meals come out at four cents. I suppose you don't have a job just yet, though, am I right?"

Either Ellie was not a unique case or this woman read people like a book. "No, I don't have one yet," said Ellie, her eyes downcast.

"Then I have a couple of addresses you could try. Some places are always in need of extra hands."

Ellie looked at the woman with surprised gratitude. "I'd appreciate that, thank you."

"Of course, dear."

"If I could just set down my things I could go look for one right away," she said earnestly.

The woman frowned at her. "Don't be ridiculous," she scolded. "You're not going anywhere in that state. Why, you look like you haven't slept in days. Tomorrow," she said, "I'll give you the addresses tomorrow. Now, I need you to fill out your name here," she said, pushing a large ledger towards Ellie.

Ellie stared down at the book, absently accepting the pen the woman had handed her. Her eyes flitted over all the names scratched into the pages. There were so many names before the blank line which would occupy hers.

She signed her full name and her age. The woman took back the ledger and, after reading her signature, said, "Ellie Summers, is it? You have beautiful penmanship."

Ellie gave a small smile of thanks, flashing back on her youth when she learned how to write by Francesca's side, under the careful and shrewd watch of Ms. Hutchins, young Francesca's governess.

After Ellie paid the lodging fare, the woman directed her to the stairs. "All right, then. Dinner's at seven. Curfew is nine-thirty sharp. If you have any other questions, you can come ask me. Those are the stairs to your left. You'll be on the second floor, the last room to your right. Can't miss it—there's only two rooms. You best wash up and get some rest for today."

Ellie gave an appreciative smile. "Thank you, Ms…"

"Ms. Cameron, dear."

"Ms. Cameron. Thank you."

Ellie took to the stairs, taking her time so as to absorb her new surroundings. The rickety wooden steps groaned with every step she took. There was no telling how long she would be here—a day? A week? Perhaps even years. The uncertainty that clouded her life unnerved her. It was an unfamiliar feeling, not knowing what the next day would bring. She had never had to stop and think about tomorrow before, because tomorrow was always the same as today, and yesterday, and the day before that.

As she reached the top step, the front door below flew open with a twitter and a clang. The noise broke the silence of the lodging house so abruptly that it made Ellie jump, her head snapping towards the door. Ellie gaped upon setting eyes on the newcomer bustling into the lobby.

She was the most beautiful woman Ellie had ever seen. She was possibly in her mid to late twenties, with voluminous copper-brown curls, deep-set blue eyes over defined cheekbones, and delicately painted lips, wearing a dusky violet silk dress trimmed with elaborate ruffles, elbow-length sleeves, and a full skirt. The gown was nothing like Ellie had ever seen and when she heard the woman speak, she determined it was a foreign fashion.

"Oh dear, it's hot as a firebrick oven out there, isn't it?" the woman said. She gave Ms. Cameron a look of admiration. "Ms. Cameron, you're as lovely as ever." Her bright smile was full of charm. A trace of an airy accent to her voice suggested an English background.

"Miss Addleton!" Ms. Cameron exclaimed in delight, rounding the table to greet her guest. She took Miss Addleton's hands and clasped them tightly in her own. "It's so wonderful to see you again. How was your trip?"

"It all went very nicely. But enough about me, Ms. Cameron, how have you been? How are the girls?"

"Just fine, we've all been just fine. Please, please sit down, Miss Addleton," Ms. Cameron fussed, directing her towards the chairs. "Would you like some tea?"

"You're too kind, but I'm afraid I must—" The woman paused for a moment as her cerulean eyes caught Ellie still staring from the top of the stairs.

Ellie blinked and directed her attention to her own boots, embarrassed.

"—run. I, well, I just had to stop by to give you this," Miss Addleton explained, handing Ms. Cameron an unmarked white envelope.

Ms. Cameron's hand fluttered to her heart as she gingerly took the envelope with the other. Her eyes were glimmering with touched emotions. "Miss Addleton, you've already donated so much. I don't know what to say," she whispered.

"Say you'll put it to good use," Addleton said with a tender smile.

"Thank you. Thank you. Bless you, Miss Addleton, for your kindness. I don't know where we would be if it weren't for all your help."

"Ms. Cameron, please, no more tears," she said lightly, pulling out a white handkerchief from her purse and handing it to the elderly woman whose tears now freely slid down her cheeks. "Now I really must go. You remember our promise, don't you?"

"Yes," said Ms. Cameron. She hesitated before going on. "But I still don't understand why you don't want anyone to know about your charitable donations. I want everyone to know about your patronage! You must at least allow me to tell the girls here about you so they know who to thank for the new sheets and books and—"

"Oh, you are much too sweet, Ms. Cameron, and I'm touched that you feel that way. But a promise is a promise, and I trust you will keep to your word," she said firmly.

"Yes, of course…"

Addleton beamed with satisfaction. "It was so good to see you again." They exchanged congenial goodbyes—with Ms. Cameron, in her gratitude, asking Addleton more than once to at least stay for tea—and the beautiful Miss Addleton turned to leave. Before exiting, however, she looked up at Ellie once more, and this time, Ellie met her gaze. Miss Addleton gave her another brilliant smile, her eyes twinkling mysteriously; it was as if she knew something Ellie didn't.

It was when Miss Addleton left when Ellie finally managed to budge from her spot on the staircase. She moved down the short hallway and stepped into the last room to the right. It was a modest space, not unlike her own room in the Richardson's servants' quarters. _Old room_, she corrected. It was odd having to refer to that room in the past tense.

There were three identical bunk beds—two against the wall to the left, one to the right with an unadorned writing desk next to it. The beds were all neatly made. She crossed the room to the bottom bunk by the window, set down her valise and sat on the bed, the springs creaking loudly under her weight. She took a moment to take in the situation, staring out the window. It wasn't much of a view, looking out to an alleyway, with only the fire escape and the bricks and mortar of the building next door visible.

What had gone wrong? In one night, her relatively steady life stumbled off the road onto some unknown route. There was a part of Ellie that believed everything was going to turn out all right—after all, Ellie had gotten into trouble more than once with the Richardsons and every time, after a period of tension, things eventually settled back into normality.

But this episode was unlike anything Ellie had ever gotten herself into. She glanced at her valise and then to her still tender arm. Thinking back on the happenings of the night before, Ellie was surprised she managed to not faint from utter fear. She felt the anxiety rushing back now and all she wanted to do was hide under the covers.

Maybe she could sleep away the fears. Ellie got up and went to the washroom located on the opposite side of the hallway, splashed her face with some cold water, tinkered with the makeshift bandage, and headed back to the bunk. Removing her boots, she delicately lied down on the bed, making sure to avoid leaning on her right arm.

Her body welcomed the rest, but her mind continued to whir. If it weren't for Francesca, Ellie wouldn't be lying in this unfamiliar bed nursing an injury. She wouldn't be out of a job and torn apart from her friends. She wouldn't have ever crossed paths with Blade.

Ellie sighed, closing her eyes. But that wasn't fair. After all, it was Ellie who decided to follow Francesca. She was the one who barged into the situation like a madwoman. She was the one who laughed off the thought of taking that skillet with her. Resignedly, she wondered why she couldn't recognize a stupid thing to do before doing it.

Ellie almost regretted trailing Francesca. She only took solace in the fact that the proud Richardson girl emerged unscathed. With closed eyes and a weary shake of the head, Ellie couldn't help but play the night's events over again in her mind. Even with the bandaged arm as evidence, she couldn't believe all that had transpired just a couple of hours before.

She wondered how Francesca was holding up.

* * *

By the long shadows outside, the sun was low on the horizon and setting rapidly. Shades of sunset orange streamed into the alley. Summer days being long, Ellie figured it was about seven in the evening. She didn't remember falling asleep, but she must have slept for a while before the sounds of excited chatter and footsteps bursting into the room woke her.

"And then he gave me this flower, see? He said it was so pretty it reminded him of me," sounded a girl's voice.

Envious sighs filled the room.

"But, Brenda, I thought you had your eyes on Jack Kelly."

Brenda scoffed. "He's been such a bore lately. I just can't believe he ignored me at dinner to talk to his buddies."

"There _is_ the strike to think about," one girl tried to justify.

"But they could talk about that at their lodging house! Anyway, this should show him," she said, holding up the flower.

"Show him what?"

"That he better pay attention to me or else some other boy is going to sweep me off my feet."

Ellie slowly lifted herself upright. Her movement caught the girls' attention. She lifted her eyes and saw them: three girls standing by the bunk bed near the doorway, all of them watching her curiously. Brenda—Ellie assumed, from the way she was holding onto a small yellow flower—was a slender girl with hazel eyes and a pretty face, half of her blond hair swept up high on her head. She raised a brow in Ellie's direction.

Ellie put on a polite smile. "Hi," she managed, trying to break the awkward silence.

The girl to Brenda's right—whose name, Leslie, Ellie would learn later—was staring back at Ellie with narrowed brown eyes. The third girl, Miranda, simply turned her nose in the air.

"Hi," the girls replied airily, uninterested, before eagerly resuming their conversation.

Ellie drew a deep breath. This was going to take some getting used to.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Who is Miss Addleton? We'll find out soon enough.

I didn't expect to be stuck on this chapter for so long, but I guess that's just how that sneaky writer's block works. I'm excited to write the next chapter, though—already made some headway on it—so hopefully it will be coming soon!

Thanks go out to _chaoticmom_ (I promise we'll learn who Francesca was with that night!)_, Adren_, and _Song For A Rainy Day_ for your kind reviews! I really appreciate everyone that is sticking with this story. :)


	13. I'll Take You There

**Disclaimer**: Disney owns _Newsies_ and all the wonderful characters from the movie.

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**Twelve.  
I'll Take You There**

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Surprise, he'd been wrong again.

But you'd think that the warning soaking they had dealt last time would teach the guy a lesson. Skittery thought for sure the strangely aggravating Tall Kid wouldn't set foot in Manhattan again after what happened last time at the distribution center. But the kid had been back at Newspaper Row this morning, along with a handful of other clueless newsies, protectively clinging onto their stacks of papers.

With Brooklyn still teetering on the fence about joining the strike, it seemed some newsies just didn't take the cause seriously. The Duane Street newsboys had been dealing with those dissenting newsies for the past couple of days. Some managed to slip by them at the distribution center, but it wasn't hard to find a newsie when he was hawking the headlines. After all the kids they managed to get a hold of yesterday, Jack and the others thought they had done a job increasing their numbers. And they went to bed that night with encouraged thoughts.

It was a different story in the morning.

The sunlight poked and prodded unrelentingly through the windows, beating down on the slumbering boys of Duane Street, promising a day of merciless heat and humidity. Though the boys were temporarily out of a job, the fact didn't deter Kloppman from keeping to his scheduled wake-up call. Just as he had been doing for years, the superintendent began shouting at all the boys and rousing them up from their beds for another day. He even took up Bumlets' walking stick and banged it against the metal frames of the bunk beds.

"Swifty did it," Skittery said with a start when Kloppman smacked hard at his overhanging feet.

Kloppman pursed his lips and shook his head. He was accustomed to Skittery uttering the last lines of his dreams. "Get up, boy," he said, urging him up. "You best get yourself to the distribution center."

"We ain't sellin' no papers," Jack crabbily protested from across the room before throwing his pillow over his ears to drown out Kloppman's voice.

"You better go and see what those other newspaper boys are up to, then, Cowboy," Kloppman shouted back. That got everyone's attention.

Jack peeked up, frowning, from beneath his below. "What newspaper boys?" he asked, though he already knew the answer.

"Those boys who sell the papers down there on the corner. They were scurrying towards Newspaper Row just a few minutes ago, they were," Kloppman said casually. "Thought you boys would want to know," he added, backing off now that he knew he had woken them up and piqued their interest.

Jack reached for his trousers hanging over the bunk post. "Goddammit," he muttered under his breath. The other boys followed his lead, with some jumping out of bed and rushing to get ready.

"Dreamin' of me, sweetface?" Swifty said with a lazy grin, patting his friend on the back as they shuffled towards the wash room.

"Shut up," Skittery muttered.

When the Duane Street boys reached Newspaper Row and spotted the group lined up outside the distribution window, their irritated mood shifted upwards to resentment. Skittery immediately locked his sights on the Tall Kid, who stood front and center of the group of stubborn, shortsighted boys. Poor David Jacobs—who, with his little brother, Les, caught up with Jack at the distribution center—genuinely tried to placate the agitated newsies on the outside of the gates, but Jack had none of it.

The iron gates groaned open and David had once again urged the boys to remain calm. The Tall Kid's beady eyes traveled from David to Jack and finally stopped on Skittery. His jaw clamped and tightened as he recognized Skittery from their previous encounters. It was that inexplicable look of spite that sent Skittery over the edge—_what the hell was that kid's problem?_ Skittery already had his fingers curled into a fist, ready to spring into a fight.

Jack had ignored David's suggestion completely, his narrowed eyes focused on the group of boys before him. "Let's soak 'em for Crutchy!" he shouted, pumping his fist emphatically in the air.

Considering the Tall Kid continued to glare at him, Skittery was more than happy to jump into the fray. "Yeah!" he shouted just as enthusiastically before tearing towards the distribution center with the rest of the striking newsboys.

They had sprinted through the gates, bent on putting a stop to the distribution of _The World_. Unfortunately for them, dirty Weasel and the Delancey brothers brought with them their dirty friends. Fortunately for them, Spot Conlon and Brooklyn finally decided to get smart. With Brooklyn's help, the striking newsies were able to fight back Weasel's brutes.

With Brooklyn joining the strike, it was practically guaranteed that other boroughs would follow, even Evans' Queens.

_Speaking of Queens, why was the Tall Kid still in Manhattan?_ Skittery questioned. It wasn't likely that Evans had anything to do with the matter; under Evans' watch, the Tall Kid would have been free to sell his damn papers, like the rest of the Queens newsboys. So why was he here? Despite the Tall Kid's glaring threats, Skittery hadn't run into him at all during the massive distribution center scuffle. _He must have run off when Brooklyn showed up_, Skittery thought dimly.

Skittery sighed, thinking back on the rough morning's activities. Rubbing at his left cheek with his palm, he could feel the shiner forming there from the punch one guy managed to land on him. That right hook—he should've seen that one coming.

After the victory at the distribution center, Bryan Denton, a reporter for _The Sun _who had met with Jack and David before, gathered all the celebrating newsies to announce a meeting at Tibby's later in the afternoon. Some of the guys headed to the modest restaurant straight away, chattering excitedly. The adrenaline from the fray still rushing through him, Skittery didn't want to settle down at Tibby's quite yet. Out of habit, he found himself heading towards his usual selling spot on Fifth Avenue, right by 34th Street. That was where he could find the wealthy traveling businessmen who checked into the grand Waldorf-Astoria Hotel.

His stomach growled, and he remembered that in the rush to get to Newspaper Row, he hadn't grabbed the usual bread roll that the nuns provided in the mornings. Lunch and dinner yesterday were sparse as well, seeing as he was running low on change. He had known it was going to be hard, going on strike. He was barely making any money before the price jack and had nothing saved up. But he thought if the other guys could handle going on strike, he could too. He sighed. It was taking a toll on him sooner than he thought.

Skittery neared his spot and, caving to the demands of his empty stomach, decided to turn round once he reached the end of the block and head down to Tibby's to meet with the rest of the fellas.

"_Trolley Workers Trigger Street Riots!_"

_That ain't going to sell_, Skittery thought instinctively, shaking his head with doubt. _People were tired of hearing about the trolley strike all the time_. Then his feet came to a stumbling stop, realization setting in: someone was selling the morning paper—and at his usual spot too. Turning around and shielding his eyes from the sun, Skittery craned his neck above the crowds, trying to track down the perpetrator.

He distinguished a hand raised above the crowd of bowler hats, gripping a copy of _The World_.

* * *

Ellie stirred to the ringings of a triangle. It was Ms. Cameron's way of waking the girls in the morning—worlds different from what Ellie was used to at the Richardson's home, with Agnes violently shaking Ellie awake and snapping orders the moment her eyelids lifted. The memory felt far away and bittersweet, even though it had only been two days since she left the Richardson's home. She imagined Agnes and the others were busy preparing breakfast for the Richardson family at the moment.

The sweet chimes of Ms. Cameron's wake-up call made the task of getting up and facing the day almost pleasant. Almost. Ellie recalled the rejections she faced just yesterday when she traveled all over the city looking for a job. Either the employees didn't want to spare money on extra help or the positions were already snatched up. Even at the addresses Ms. Cameron provided the jobs had been filled. The dismissals from days past were beginning to weigh down on Ellie. Not to mention her small money bag was becoming lighter by the day.

Ellie washed up alongside other bleary-eyed girls and got ready to commence another round of job searching. The second floor was quiet save for the occasional murmur of a polite "good morning," until a hushed conversation between two girls set off a chain of chatter.

"Brenda, are you serious about this?" asked Miranda.

"Yes. I'll find another job in the meanwhile."

Miranda shook her head in disbelief. "I can't believe you. I can't believe that Jack Kelly asked us to stop selling papers. It's not like going on strike is going to change anything."

"Don't talk about Jack that way," Brenda warned.

"You heard him yourself last night. He was telling that curly-haired friend of his that if Spot Conlon doesn't back them up—"

"Jack knows exactly what he's doing, Miranda," Brenda cut off, her voice rising.

Miranda's jaw tightened. She stood tall, pushing her blond hair away from her face and holding her nose in the air. "I thought you were going to forget about him."

Brenda narrowed her eyes. "What do you mean by that?"

"You said he was a bore, didn't you?"

"That was just… god, Miranda, why do you take every little thing so seriously all the time?"

"He put us newsgirls out of a job! We're not going to survive two days without selling papers. But he doesn't see that. And he's playing you for a sucker."

"Don't blame him for that! Jack doesn't know about our situation. He's just trying to make things fair again—why can't you see that?"

Miranda rolled her eyes in exasperation. "Two days ago you didn't want to talk about the strike. Today you think it's the best idea in the world. Why can't _you_ have a mind of your own?" she pleaded. She gave her a steely glance before drying her hands on the hanging towel. "You know what? I think you care about him more than you care about our brother."

Brenda's face twisted in anger. With her hands clenched at her sides, all the girls in the washroom were certain a physical fight would erupt. Miranda, her chin still in the air, seemed to be daring her sister to hit her. But nothing happened. After several seconds of thick tension, Brenda huffed and stomped out, while Miranda glared after her.

Leslie cautiously approached Miranda. "Why'd you say those things? You guys were getting along so well just a couple of days ago. And for the first time in ages…"

"That's before she decided to be stupid and stop selling," Miranda snapped.

Ellie tiptoed around the two girls carefully, reaching for the towel to dry her face. Returning to her bunk, she faced the cracked mirror hanging by her bed. She had guessed that Brenda and Miranda were siblings after observing them more carefully after her awkward first night. Brenda was prettier in the classical sense, with her round eyes, straight nose and full lips, while Miranda's eyes were heavy-lidded, her nose slightly hawked, her lips thin. But they had the same pale coloring, so much so that, from far away, they looked identical.

She couldn't help but be curious, especially after the row just moments before. The sisters were, as Leslie pointed out, certainly on good terms when Ellie first saw them. But since then, their relationship became tense, and at the center of it all was a Jack Kelly and the newsboys strike and a mysterious brother.

_This isn't the time to be drifting_, Ellie chided herself. Smacking her cheeks lightly, she urged herself to focus. She worked on making herself presentable, pulling back her dark hair and twisting it high into a bun. She straightened the collar of her shirt and brushed off the lint on her black skirt. Reaching into her bag, her fingers fumbled for the paper Ms. Cameron had given her. There were three more places on the list to try today. Ellie headed out, joining the steady stream of girls starting another day of work.

It was stiflingly humid. Ellie rolled up her sleeves as she concentrated on finding the first address. It was on Fifth Avenue, only a couple of blocks west, then about another mile north. Ms. Cameron explained that this family was looking for a new housemaid, which was something Ellie was confident she could handle after her time with the Richardsons. She hoped this job would be the one. With the sparse amount of money on her, she wasn't sure how long she could go on without an income.

Consumed by her thoughts, Ellie was turning on Fifth in what seemed like no time at all, heading up the busy avenue. New York City was as energetic as ever. Ellie had to take care in dodging frenetic mothers and their crying children, rushing businessman in bowler hats, young boys playing, police officers, late students.

Judging by the building numbers, Ellie was proceeding closer to her destination. It was when she was examining the address above the door of one building when an announcement about trolley workers reached her ears.

The voice prompted a feeling a familiarity that tugged at Ellie's heart. Her feet stopped. She turned slowly, unsure if she heard correctly, scanning for the source of the voice. It came again, and, certain of it this time, she began to push past the mass of people, following the sound of the voice. It was close, but there were so many people…

She thought she lost the voice. The chaos of happenings around her dizzied her.

And then she saw him.

For a moment, Ellie saw in her mind the small and timid boy she met years ago. He stood ahead of her now, his back to her, arm extended high in the air, his hand clutching a newspaper. She couldn't put to words how reassuring it was to see someone she knew before the strange turn of events of days past. So much uncertainty had filled her thoughts ever since that seeing an old friend again made her eyes well up with gratitude. Ellie approached him with light steps and, standing directly behind him, tapped him on the shoulder.

He spun around. His eyes turned wide upon settling on her. "Ellie?"

"Hi, Mort." She felt herself smile, genuinely, for the first time in days.

"What're you doing here?" He was grinning, too, despite being baffled by her sudden appearance.

Ellie hesitated. The truth wasn't something she wanted Mort involved in. Besides, after going through the Blade encounter in her head so many times, Ellie found herself exhausted by the memory. It was done, and she needed to move on despite how difficult moving on was proving to be. "It's a long story," she heard herself answering.

"Oh," he mumbled. His face fell with disappointment when he realized she had no intention of elaborating.

Ellie frowned. In all her preoccupation with unexpectedly seeing her friend, she hadn't wondered _why_ he was in Manhattan. "What're you doing here yourself?" she returned. "I thought you only sold your papers in Queens."

Mort appeared flustered. "I, uh… there's this, this strike, you know…"

Ellie nodded. "I know the Manhattan newsboys are going on strike," she said, recalling the meeting between Manhattan and Evans in Queens. A fight had nearly occurred then, she recollected, between Mort and one of the Manhattan boys. _So why is he here?_ "Wouldn't it be better to sell with Evans and Ricky?"

"They're thinking of going on strike, too," Mort responded.

"But they're not on strike yet," Ellie said, not comprehending. Something else about him caught her attention. She focused on the coloring on his cheekbone. "What happened to your face?"

Mort involuntarily rubbed at the bruise. "Nothing."

"That's not 'nothing.'"

"I… I decided to stand up for myself, Ellie," he said. He paused, gathering courage, before adding quietly, "Like you told me to once."

Ellie's brows snapped together in vexation. "When did I say that?"

"When we first met at the park. You helped me from those guys, remember?"

She remembered somewhat. "Mort, I was seven or something then—"

"Nine."

"Nine," she remedied. "It was a long time ago, and I don't even remember what it was I told you exactly. I can't believe you would."

"You said, 'sometimes you have to stand up for yourself.'"

The phrase made her pause._ Did I really?_ Ellie wondered vaguely. "Ah, see!" Ellie exclaimed, brightening. "I said 'sometimes.'" When Mort didn't budge, Ellie sighed, surrendering. He was being evasive with his answers. Though Ellie was concerned, she knew there was no getting past that barrier he held up. Ever since they were kids, Mort always retreated from revealing too much of himself.

"Don't do anything rash, please?" Ellie requested.

Mort's ears flushed and he looked down at his feet, softly kicking around the dirt. "Thanks, Ellie," he mumbled, appreciative of her concern.

"You there," a man called from behind Mort. "Do you have today's paper?"

Mort exchanged his paper for a shiny coin then turned back to Ellie to ask her if she could join him for lunch. But she spoke first.

"I'll let you get back to work," she said amiably, realizing with remorse that she was hindering his sales. Ellie regretted having to cut their meeting short, but she also had tasks to complete today. "Maybe I'll see you here tomorrow?" she added hopefully, waving goodbye over her shoulder as she jogged up the street.

Mort waved back, happy to have seen her and saddened to see her leave…

* * *

Skittery couldn't hear the voice nor see the hand anymore. He had just started heading in the direction of the shouted headlines when three small kids sprinted across his path, chasing and screaming after each other. In that brief interruption, Skittery lost track of the bad headline. But he continued in the general direction, back towards the hotel, though he still couldn't make out any newsies in the area.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a tall and lanky man crossing the street towards him. What made the man stand out from all the others was the morning edition he held in his hand. Tracing the man's steps backwards, Skittery made to cross to the other side.

As he stepped down from the sidewalk, his eyes fell on a dark-haired girl doing the same from the other side. She was looking left and right, then turning left again before she caught sight of him staring. It wasn't as though she was anything remarkable—he just thought he knew her from somewhere. He just couldn't quite place his finger on where. It appeared as though she was trying to figure out the same thing, for she looked away with furrowed brows, deliberating.

When the street cleared, they crossed towards each other. Even as he got a better look at her, Skittery still couldn't remember why she looked familiar. So he shrugged it off. What he needed to do right now was find the source of that bad headline selling at his spot.

But the thought perished when the sounds of panicked shrieks pierced the air. Skittery's attention snapped to his left, where chaos was breaking out as people shoved and pushed each other out of the way. Squinting against the sun, he noticed after several moments that chaos had a direction, and it was towards the sidewalks; the mad mass parted in half to either side, the terrified flattening themselves against the buildings.

Skittery recognized the angry pounding of hooves too late. Everything happened so quickly. Out of the parting sea of people leapt out two great white stagecoach horses—obviously frightened, arguably even more so than the populace of Fifth Avenue.

His body, mind were immobilized by surprise for a second. Then the same panic that had overtaken the others found him. It was a strange moment, one he couldn't very well explain; apprehension clouded his thoughts but heightened his senses, and the first thing he noticed was the dark-haired girl standing a foot away from him. They were both frozen in the middle of the street, directly in the stagecoach's path. She tipped her head towards him, held his gaze with alarmed brown eyes, and he knew she had just come to the same conclusion he had.

They would be trampled.

Instinct screamed at him and he reached for her, but she was half a step quicker. Throwing out all decorum and chivalry, the girl hurdled herself towards him.

They landed on the ground with a thud just as the horses stampeded past, casting long, flickering shadows upon them, the stagecoach clamoring unstably behind. Skittery had fallen hard on his back, the wind knocked out of him, against the sidewalk. It took a while for the sky to stop spinning. When he gathered his wits at last, he lifted his head slowly in the direction of the stagecoach. Someone had finally gotten the horses under control for they had ceased running several blocks away, though they continued to neigh and stomp their hooves agitatedly.

He felt the weight on his chest when he tried to sit up. Skittery looked down and saw that the girl was half laying on top of him, her head on his chest. She wasn't moving.

"Hey," said Skittery, nudging her. "Hey." She didn't answer.

He moved up slightly, sitting on his elbows, where he was able to see the profile of her face. She was grimacing, biting down on her bottom lip. When he spoke, however, her eyes snapped open. She glanced up at him and, realizing the indecent position she was in, struggled up to her knees.

"Sorry about that," she said as he sat up. "I, um…" She looked like she was still trying to gather herself, clutching her arm and blinking rapidly. She straightened suddenly, her attention on the stagecoach in the distance. Looking like a curious bird, she craned her head this way and that, from the horses to him and back. "Are they all right? Oh, thank goodness. Are you all right?" She turned to him with concern etched in her face.

"Yeah," he answered blandly, running a hand through his hair. He stretched to grab his hat that had flown off during the fall. "You—" Skittery stopped short when he spied a spotting of red on the arm of her white shirt. Understanding—and for some reason, guilt—sunk in: she must have scraped her arm during the fall. It didn't look like much harm was done, but the girl was obviously bothered by it. She tried to save the both of them and ended up hurt in the process.

"Lemme take a look at that," he said, reaching for her arm.

She flinched back protectively, looking at him with a skeptical face that said, "You don't look like a doctor to me."

"Right," he muttered lamely as the pair got to their feet. He pointed to her arm. "You should get that looked at." Skittery massaged the back of his head to ease the pain from the fall. Taking another look at the girl, he could have sworn that more blood had seeped onto her shirt. Maybe it was more serious than he originally thought.

"Thank you. I will," she said, a little too earnestly. With a civil nod, she turned on her heel.

Skittery called after her. "Hospital's that way," he informed, pointing his thumb over his shoulder.

She halted and turned around partway, looking like she was searching for an excuse to get away from him.

"You are going to see a doc, right?" he asked her. _Oh, great_. Now he sounded like a nagging mother._ What did it matter whether she was going or not?_ He didn't know her.

But damned if he let her go wincing pathetically like that after what she did. Skittery hated this sudden feeling of indebtedness. If Race knew what Skittery was feeling, he would screw his face up in that way he always did when he expressed his incredulity. Skittery imagined Blink and Mush, on the other hand, would pat him on the back in understanding. Even though he knew he would have been fine without her help, the fact was, she helped. And he would feel like a thankless bum if he didn't at least point her in the right direction to get that scrape treated.

"I'll take you there if you don't know the way," he heard himself offering. _Huh_, he thought to himself belatedly. _That was awfully nice of me_.

"I'll be fine," she said with a forced smile, raising a hand in polite protest. "Thank you, but I have an appointment to get to right now…" The girl gave another nod of "good day."

"You ain't going to an appointment like that, are you?" He looked pointedly at her shirt.

Her face turned. Following his line of sight, she gazed down at her arm and actually gave a start. Apparently, she had been too consumed with trying to ignore the pain that she hadn't bothered to actually look at it. Realizing her state, a mixture of worry and weariness dawned on her features. Then, heaving a sigh, the girl spoke to him at last.

"Could you tell me where the nearest hospital is?"

* * *

**Author's Note:** Lookit that – an update and no half-year wait in between! I've been looking forward to writing this meeting for a long time. There's a lot that happens in this chapter - I hope it came out okay and didn't come across too rushed.

Thanks to chaoticmom, Adren, and stress for the reviews of the last chapter. I appreciate your encouraging words more than you know!


	14. Thanks For, You Know

**Disclaimer**: Disney owns _Newsies_ and all the wonderful characters from the movie.

* * *

**Thirteen.  
Thanks For, You Know.**

**

* * *

**

It wasn't the nearest hospital, but it was the one Skittery found most dependable. There was a doctor there he trusted, and he was the only doctor he went to see ever since Kloppman referred Skittery to him years before.

Medical care was provided at the Newsboys lodging house, but more serious illnesses and injuries were treated at the Hudson Street Hospital, just a couple of blocks away from Duane Street. Over the years, a distinguished man by the name of Dr. Alton Phillips had tended to dozens of Duane Street boys. Even though the man initially seemed brusque in manner, it didn't take long to see that he genuinely cared about his patients.

Because there were no trolleys to hop on, it took them nearly an hour to walk to the hospital. Skittery tried to make the time less awkward by making small talk—something, he decided, he was awful at doing and which ultimately made the situation even more uncomfortable. He realized that he was mostly making mentions of how damn hot it was. She managed one-worded answers of agreement and faint smiles, but overall, the girl didn't seem to be in any mood to cooperate. The color had drained from her face and her eyes took on a faraway yet focused look. Her breathing became labored and her fingers remained tightly clasped on her arm.

_Maybe we should've just gone to the nearest place_, Skittery thought, taking a furtive sideways glance at the girl and second guessing the extent of her injury. It was a sweltering day, but the beads of sweat that slipped down from her hairline were more indications of arduous effort than of falling victim to the summer heat. It was too late to turn back by that time, however, as they were closing in on Hudson Street. He quietly encouraged her pace, telling her the hospital was just several blocks away. She, in return, appeared tremendously relieved.

Upon reaching the hospital, he led her to the fifth floor where Dr. Phillips' cramped corner office hid. Arriving at the open door, Skittery spied the doctor sitting hunched over in his rickety chair, his nose in a pile of papers atop his desk. From the small window at the end of the room streamed the intense sunlight for his readings. Dr. Phillips was a sturdy man in his fifties, with light brown hair streaked with white and bushy brows framing bright sea green eyes.

Skittery removed his cap and gave the door three sharp knocks with his knuckles.

Dr. Phillips barely budged. "Come back in an hour. I'm taking lunch."

"Uh, there's someone who'd like to see you, Dr. Phillips," Skittery said, gesturing the girl to the door.

"I don't recall hiring an assistant," Dr. Phillips mumbled. He tore his attention away from his readings, turned to the door and, upon seeing Skittery, threw his hands up in the air dramatically. "Not you again."

"Yeah," Skittery said sheepishly.

"You kids just can't stay away from trouble, can you?" Dr. Phillips said, shaking his head and rising from his seat. "What is it now? How's that little kid doing?"

"Tumbler? He's doing fine now."

"That was a hard fall he took then. Is that how he got his name, by the way? Does he tumble down often?"

Skittery chuckled in response. "Sort of."

"I hope you're looking after him more closely. Kids like to run and bounce around at that age. All that young energy, they just don't know what to do with it. All right, enough chitchat. What are you bothering me again for?"

"It's…" Skittery looked over at the girl poking her head in at the doorway, "this girl."

"'This girl?' You two don't know each other?"

"We kind of just… bumped into each other," Skittery explained. "She's got a bad scrape, or something."

"Well, come on in," Dr. Phillips said to the girl. "Let's see how bad this scrape is. Sit down right here. Very good, yes, right there on that chair. Oh. That does look quite bad," he said, frowning, when he saw the stains on her shirt. "I'm going to need to take a look at your arm, all right? And, Skittery, I'm going to have to ask you to wait outside."

Skittery nodded and glanced at the clock on the doctor's desk. "Yeah, okay. I have somewhere to go right now anyway," he said, figuring he should be on his way to Tibby's.

"Oh, that's right, you don't know one another. You're better off not knowing him," Dr. Phillips told the girl as he prepared his examination and medical materials. "He'll just give you trouble. Do you know how many times I've had to stitch him back up after the fights he and his friends got into? And I told him after each time, to stop picking fights. Does he listen? By the looks of that bruise on his face right now, I'd say he doesn't."

"All right, all right," Skittery said, raising his hands in defeat. "I get what you're saying." After a pause, he roguishly added, "But the guy hit me first."

Dr. Phillips sighed and pursed his lips, looking up at him over his glasses. "Give James Kloppman my regards, will you?"

"Will do," he answered, moving towards the door.

"Skittery?" the girl called suddenly.

He turned and looked at her, surprised that she knew his name.

"Thank you," she said.

Then he remembered that Dr. Phillips had called him by his name just moments before. "Yeah, least I could do," he replied, slightly embarrassed. "Thanks for, you know. Before."

She let out a little laugh and, for reasons he couldn't quite fathom, Skittery found himself grinning in return.

He left the room so Dr. Phillips could tend to the girl. He paused outside of the doorway, however, when he heard the doctor draw the curtain for his patient's privacy and speak.

"That's no scrape, is it?"

Skittery frowned. _What did he mean by that?_ After a few long seconds, the doctor heaved a sigh and spoke again.

"This should have been stitched before. How long has it been? A couple of days? Looks like it was just starting to close up but opened again, am I right? Well, then, by the looks of this, you two didn't just bump into each other. Crashed, is more like it."

A silence between them, just the rattle of the doctor's medical tray.

"This is going to prick a little," Dr. Phillips warned. "What did you think of him, that Skittery? Good kid, for the most part. Hadn't seen him in a couple of months. Last time he was here, half the lodging house came with him when this young friend of theirs fell down the stairs. Can you imagine how cramped it got in here, having fifteen or so kids standing around in this small office?"

Skittery recognized this tactic. He didn't see Dr. Phillips all these years and not come to understand some of the doctor's methods. Right now he was chattering on to keep the patient's mind off of the procedure. He almost snorted at the story the doctor told, remembering that crazy night when Tumbler, dripping wet from having been caught in the intense thunderstorm, slipped down the stairs and caused an uproar of panic in the lodging house. Skittery had picked the kid up in his arms and, accompanied by Jack, Swifty, Mush, Blink, Bumlets, Dutchy and Boots, ran out the door held open by a fretting Kloppman.

"That should do it," Dr. Phillips said, snipping off the end of the stitching. "I apologize, I didn't ask for your name before, did I?"

"_Oh_," she uttered in surprise, suddenly recalling her manners. "Of course. My name is Ellie Summers."

"Well, Miss Summers, I don't know how you went around with just that sheet keeping your arm together. If you don't mind my asking," he said carefully, "how did this happen? And don't tell me it was an accident. I'm a doctor, you know."

There was an uneasy laugh on the girl's part. "It, um…" she trailed off, considering her words. "I think I upset someone, very much," she said, her tone light, nervous.

The doctor clucked his tongue. "A person capable of doing that is unwell. I hope you don't see that someone again."

"I don't intend to," the girl affirmed.

"Glad to hear it. I'll walk you over to the ward now, if you're all right to stand on your feet."

"The ward?"

"Yes. You'll need to stay indoors for a while."

"But I'm feeling fine," she insisted.

"You're dehydrated and you've suffered sufficient blood loss." His tone was firm, suggesting there was no arguing about the matter.

Skittery's attention snapped away from the conversation in the office. He abruptly remembered where he was and where he was supposed to be. Knowing the girl was all right relieved his conscience and he felt free to finally return to his friends. He turned on his heel and hastened towards the staircase.

* * *

The ward was downstairs on the third floor and just down the hall. It was a considerably large open space, with narrow beds neatly aligned on either side of the room. There were several windows—four of them—on the each side, providing ample sunlight to illuminate the place. Captivating paintings of nature decorated the walls, bringing splashes of color to an otherwise colorless room.

A quick scan of the ward showed most of the hospital beds occupied, with a number of nurses hovering over and tending to the patients. Dr. Phillips called over Nurse Williams, a thin woman with reddish hair, and rattled off instructions. After confirming, she set off to make preparations.

He addressed Ellie next. "Nurse Williams will look after you. If you feel any discomfort or pain, ask for Dr. Phillips. That's me."

Grateful for his time and help, she said, "Thank you, Doctor."

He gave a curt nod and left, heading back to his office.

"Miss Summers?" Nurse Williams had returned, carrying a tray with a glass and a pitcher of water. "This way."

She guided Ellie to a cot near the back of the room. Ellie felt a bit awkward being in the ward when, aside from a little dizziness and tenderness in her arm, she really did feel fine. But, under the watch of Nurse Williams, she found herself slowly settling down on the bed. Her body melted into the yielding surface. The response perplexed her; she hadn't realized how tired she was until that moment.

"The doctor says you need to drink plenty of water," said the nurse as she poured a glass of water for Ellie. "I'll leave this tray here for you," she added, placing the pitcher on the side table to Ellie's right.

Ellie expressed her thanks and drank the lukewarm water—to her surprise—in one go. Setting down the glass, she laid back against the pillow. She had to admit, she _did_ feel better, especially now that her arm had received proper care. It had been an excruciating experience, walking to the hospital while worrying about the wound reopening.

But as much as she wished it, the reprieve from the rest and refreshment couldn't impede the earlier anxiety from coming back.

She was still in need of a job. As soon as she was allowed to leave, Ellie knew she had to rush to the last three addresses on the list. If she was lucky, she would only have to go to the first one—the one that she wanted. But Ellie wasn't counting on luck. She was, nevertheless, keeping her hopes up, convincing herself that everything was going to work out fine.

Everything was going to be fine.

She took another glass of water and sipped slowly.

In an attempt to distract herself, she set her eyes on the ward's residents, taking in her surroundings. From what Ellie saw of the hospital on the way up the stairs, there was a separate ward for children on the fourth floor. Accordingly, the patients here ranged from the middle-aged to the elderly. They were sleeping, dining on what looked like porridge, conversing with the nurses, or reading. Overall, the atmosphere here was quiet and still.

The paintings on the walls drew her attention next, particularly the one hanging opposite her. It was a snow-covered scene. A winding footpath led to a humble cottage, warm shades of oranges and yellows of flickering light emanating from the windows. The fire place was lit, for ashen gray smoke rose in wispy puffs from the chimney, rising into the formless snow clouds that blanketed the sky. The cottage was enclosed into seclusion by a forest of proud, lofty evergreens, stretching back into the distance. And even further, behind the evergreens, stood the ghostly silhouette of a majestic mountain range.

Ellie stared, fixated, at the painting for a long time, taking in the colors, the brushstrokes, the washes, the texture of the canvas. She didn't know how much time passed as she studied the landscape, but—maybe the summer heat was to blame—she gradually felt herself getting drowsy.

She fought to stay up. _I have things to do today._

The painting became hazy. _But everything is going to be okay, right?_

And her eyelids drooped, surrendering.

* * *

Skittery pushed the hospital door open and stepped out into the afternoon sun. He adjusted his cap against the blinding daylight before jogging lightly across the street, darting approaching coaches and carts.

His trip wasn't supposed to take this long. What began as a short walk to blow off some steam and energy developed into a more eventful couple of hours. That wasn't to forget the scuffle at the distribution center in the morning—the reason Skittery went for a walk in the first place. He was ready to settle down now after everything that had happened, and get something to eat to shut up his stomach. It was almost noon, and the hunger he had all but forgotten from earlier returned in overwhelming waves. He was willing to bet the other fellas, waiting for Denton, already satisfied their hunger with whatever was on the specials menu.

Hunger and thirst driving him, his pace accelerated, and he envisioned all the food he wanted piled on his plate at Tibby's. But, of course, there wasn't enough money in his pockets to afford everything on the menu. Absently, he fiddled with the change in his pocket, and he couldn't help but wonder again how much longer he could go without selling papers. He'd have to try and haggle with Danny, one of the waiters there, for extra rolls.

Skittery was in the middle of contemplating his upcoming meal when a strong grip clamped onto the arm of his shirt and pulled him sideways into an alley. The force with which he was pulled caused him to lose balance, falling against the brick of the building. For the second time that day, Skittery fell hard against his back, obstructing him from getting to his lunch.

_All right_, he thought, fuming. _Now I'm pissed._

Rubbing the back of his head, he shouted, "What the hell—"

"What happened to Ellie?"

"How the heck am I supposed to know—?" Skittery froze when he laid eyes on his seizer. Standing a good several inches over and away from him was none other than the Tall Kid. _Just his luck. This kid just won't quit showing up_. His eyes traveled down to the thin stack of papers in the Tall Kid's left hand. _And he's selling papers_. Which meant that he _had_, in fact, managed to slip by the rallying newsies earlier.

"I saw you with her. Where is she?"

Skittery did not want to deal with this right now. It was hot, he was hungry, and he had been tossed around like a rag doll more than enough times today. Not like he knew what this guy was talking about. _Saw me with who?_

In a moment of comprehension, Skittery's gaze flickered back down the street, around the corner on which the hospital stood. The kid was talking about _that_ girl. The one he just dropped off with Dr. Phillips. And when that understanding sunk in, it triggered another memory to come to surface—of the first time he met the Tall Kid. He nearly snapped his fingers in realization. That girl... Skittery had seen her before when he visited Queens; she was the one who had had that funny face and had stepped between him and the Tall Kid in order to stop a fight from breaking out.

"Damn," Skittery muttered in disbelief, almost inclined to laugh at the turn of events.

The Tall Kid glowered at him. "Where's Ellie?"

Skittery didn't feel like giving him the benefit of an answer. Instead, he sardonically said, "Wouldn't you like to know?" And fed up with the look on the kid's face, Skittery took a step towards the mouth of the alley, intent on leaving him with a complete blank.

But the Tall Kid wasn't about to give up that easily. He grabbed Skittery by the collar and pushed him against the wall. For a second, the kid himself seemed to be surprised by his actions. Gathering his thoughts, he repeated, "Where is she?"

Skittery caught the kid's wrist and roughly shoved it away from his shirt. It took all of his restraint to keep himself from knocking the guy out. Because he really would have liked to, after all of the groundless hostility from this guy. He checked himself, though her wasn't sure why. Now wasn't the time to work out the logic. But maybe it was because of the girl, how she had thought to save him from the runaway coach, and knowing that this chump was somehow related to her.

Again, Skittery made to leave without a word. The next question, however, gave him pause.

"Is she okay?" the Tall Kid asked then, his voice low.

It caught him completely off guard. He wasn't so callous to miss the vulnerability in how that question was posed. It almost seemed too heartless to leave without giving a reply. Skittery still didn't believe the guy deserved it, though.

"Yeah," he answered over his shoulder. With no intention of sticking around any longer, he strode out and joined the crowded street.

Thankfully, the Tall Kid didn't follow him out. Even though Skittery was physically drained, he wasn't sure how much more of the kid's animosity he could take without sending a fist flying.

Skittery remembered Specs and Bumlets speculating whether the girl—this Ellie—was the Tall Kid's girl, considering the way she tried to protect him. They sure as hell weren't related or just friends—that much was clear by the Tall Kid's doings just now. The intensity in his eyes suggested that there was more to their relationship.

He removed a half-used cigarette from his pocket and, after fumbling for an unused match, lit the short stub and brought it to his lips. It wasn't as though Skittery cared what their relationship was, anyway. He just found it curious how the girl seemed nice enough—he remembered how she thanked him at Dr. Phillips' office—while the guy was just plain lousy. It didn't make much sense to him.

Drawing close to Tibby's, he picked up his pace. The rich aroma of flavors from the small restaurants, street vendors' carts and bread shops he passed diverted his thoughts and tugged at his appetite. He went by the fight ring, teeming with fervent viewers, where sellers carried heaps of fresh pretzels.

Snuffing out the end of his cigarette, Skittery placed the remains in his pocket to save for later. He spied his friends through Tibby's windows as he turned the corner for the door.

"Lookit who it is," said someone from behind, stopping him at the entrance.

Racetrack.

"Have a nice little walk?" he asked, the laughter in his voice.

"Ya bet right this time?" Skittery retorted.

"Still glum," Race muttered behind Skittery's back as the two boys entered the restaurant.

"Hey, Skitts!" called Specs upon his pal's arrival. "Saved you a seat."

Skittery slid into the chair and, without missing a beat, grabbed at Specs' cup of water, downed what was left, and picked up a half-eaten bread roll, practically swallowing the entire chunk.

"Hey," Specs griped, "I was saving that!"

But he wasn't listening; Danny the waiter had finally come over to their table and Skittery was busy haggling for an extra roll with his meal. Danny was the most easily swayed of all the servers in the restaurant, but that was because he was a nice guy in general, always smiling. Then after Danny left, Skittery sat there, wordless, leaning back in his seat with arms crossed impatiently.

"Nice shiner," commented Spot as he took a seat at the table across from Skittery and Specs.

Skittery exhaled sharply through his nose, plainly holding back a terse response. Spot just let out a low chuckle, simply amused at how easily riled the Manhattan newsie was right then.

"What's the matter with you?" asked Specs, frowning at his disgruntled friend.

"Nothing."

And that was the end of that. Skittery didn't open his mouth again until Danny came back with his plate—with an extra roll as promised—and he commenced on wolfing down his meal. Only after he started feeling full did he relax and slow down, picking at his food.

Sensing it was safer to approach Skittery now, Swifty pulled up a seat to their table and sat down, sitting forward against the back of the chair.

"What happened to you?" he asked.

Skittery chewed and swallowed before answering. "Nothing."

"Oh, come on," said Specs. "It's written all over your face: 'I'm peeved, ask me why.'"

"I'm not peeved. And nothing happened." When Skittery saw the two of them simultaneously open their mouths to badger him again, though, he figured he ought to say _something_ to divert them. "Someone was selling at my spot."

Sitting close by at another table, Jack's ears perked up. "Did ya soak him?" he asked.

"No, lost him," Skittery said, while David muttered something about how "we can't go soaking everyone we see."

"Did you see who it was? Hey," Specs said suddenly, laughing, "imagine if it was that Tall Kid selling at your spot."

Skittery wasn't laughing along.

Swifty looked at Specs quizzically. "Who's the Tall Kid?"

"The Tall Kid? That kid, remember? The tall one."

"Wow, thanks. Now I know exactly who you're talking about."

"The Tall Kid! The one from the distribution center that tried to get away with his papes, before Jack smacked them away, like that," Specs explained, imitating Jack's smacking motion.

"Oh, yeah," Swifty said, remembering the guy and nodding. "What about him?"

"We met him before in Queens," Specs said. "And now it looks like he's selling here."

"He hates Skittery," added a passing Bumlets.

"Skitts here? Why would anyone have something against our boy here—he's a ball of sunshine," ragged Swifty.

"Shut up," Skittery said.

"We don't know why," said Specs. "He just picked a fight with Skitts out of nowhere."

"What'd you do," Swifty asked, "insult his old lady?"

"No," Skittery said tersely.

Swifty and Specs shrugged at Skittery's continued bad mood and silence. They could tell there was something he wasn't telling them, but they also knew that if they kept pushing him while he was in this state, he'd only become more unpleasant. They decided, therefore, to drop the matter altogether.

Specs initiated the subject change. "Swifty, how's that pretty girl of yours doing? She write back yet? You lucky bastard…"

* * *

_Snow._

_ The little girl pressed her face and hands against the glass of the window, eyes wide in wonder of the falling ice crystals. Flurries flew past. Fresh snow capped the pine trees outside. Looking back towards the middle of the room, she excitedly summoned the solemn man standing in front of the fire place. He tossed a thin piece of firewood into the growing flames._

"_Look, Daddy—it's snow!"_

_The man ignored her. Upset by his lack of response, she reiterated, "Daddy, I said it's snow!"_

_He walked over to a writing desk in the corner of the room, cluttered with documents and crumpled papers. Opening up a brown leather briefcase on the chair, he threw in the papers from his desk. He almost wiped the entire desk clean, save for a small envelope. This, he gazed at for a long minute before placing it in his jacket pocket._

_A feeling of anxiety rose in Ellie's chest as she watched the man packing by the desk and the little girl staring happily out the window. She had watched the exchange—or, rather, lack of—like a specter, an unseen audience. Neither players addressed her, even though she was standing in the room with them._

"_Daddy, aren't you going to see the snow?" the little girl whined. "It's so pretty."_

_And then, right at that moment, the man looked Ellie straight in the eyes. Her heart jumped, as though she had been caught doing something mischievous, like peeking at Christmas presents the night before, even though she was sure he was searching for something else, something behind her perhaps._

"_Ellie," he said, finally. He was still looking her way._

_Suddenly, she was no longer the invisible spectator. She turned her head to the right, then to the left, and came to the realization that _she_ was the one sitting by the window._

_The snow _was_ pretty._

_The man approached her with heavy footsteps. He was wearing boots. And a winter coat. He looked sad. Why?_

"_Ellie," the man called again. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the small envelope from before. He didn't say another word as he handed it to her. Ellie clutched at the envelope with both hands and brought it to her chest. This was important, she felt._

_He slugged a weighty satchel over his shoulder, took his briefcase in the other hand and trudged towards the door. The anxiety within her grew to alarming heights. When his hand reached for the knob, turned, and pulled open the door, she leapt from her seat by the window, a cry of protest catching in her throat. Without another look back at her, he departed._

_The place felt very lonely. And cold. He had left the door open._

_Ellie dashed to the open doorway, from where she could see the shadowy figure of the man traveling down the winding pathway._

"_Why are you leaving?" she heard herself call out. The man didn't turn around, didn't give a hint that he had even heard her. "Is it me?" she asked, her voice wavering. "Is it because of me?" She added quietly, "Did I do something wrong?"_

_He kept walking away, fading into the distance._

"_Won't you tell me where you're going?"_

_No response._

_Still holding the envelope in her hand, Ellie jumped outside and into the snowstorm. The fallen snow came up to her calves. She tried to run after him but the snow slowed her down, grabbing at her shoes, the hem of her skirts. In her rush to catch up to the man, she kept stumbling, but she continued forward, his form now barely visible in the distance._

_She staggered and fell forward, landing on her hands. Struggling, she pushed herself up and when she did, found herself surrounded by trees. Circling around in panic, Ellie could no longer see the man. She could no longer see the cottage or the winding path from which she came. There were no paths at all, anywhere. Apprehensively, she started in one direction but pulled back almost immediately, afraid of what lay ahead in the darkness._

_She was lost._

_The revelation weakened her knees and she buckled back into the snow, fearfully staring into the night. She didn't know how long she stayed like that, watching the snow fall around her. Then Ellie remembered the envelope. Looking down at her hand, she was relieved to see the envelope still there. With frozen hands, Ellie tried to tear the envelope open. Her fingers refused to move accordingly, shaking, slipping. She huffed in frustration, trying again and again, dropping the envelope, scrambling for it, and picking at the paper's edges over again…_

"_Dear, are you going to stand out there all night?"_

_At once, Ellie halted her mad attempts at tearing the piece of paper. She twisted around in the snow, searching for the source of the calm voice behind her._

_There, just a few feet from her, stood a beautiful woman with cerulean eyes and a warm smile. "Aren't you cold like that?" she asked._

_Ellie swallowed back tears of gratitude. She wasn't alone anymore. "Yes," she admitted in a whisper._

_The woman approached her, leaned down, and stretched out her hand towards Ellie. "Come," she said._

_She radiated such confidence and security. Ellie didn't need to think twice about her decision. Grasping the envelope in one hand to her heart, she extended the other slowly._

_And then their fingers curled around each other's hands, forming an unbreakable clasp._

Ellie's eyes flew open.

She blinked several times as her vision focused. The painting of the winter scene with the cottage on the wall opposite her came into view. She gave a weak smile; it seemed that she had scrutinized the image of snow for so long that it infiltrated her dreams. The impression of snow-covered trees was the only part she could remember, however. She futilely tried to grab at the rest of it, but the dream slipped past as she fully gained consciousness. As she shifted to an upright position, Ellie noticed her left hand was turned into a fist at her chest and her right was tensed up by her side. She released both, left to wonder what she could have possibly been dreaming about.

Ellie was so consumed with her own thoughts that she didn't see the boy sitting cross-legged at the end of her bed. When she finally spotted him, she let out an unladylike "Ah!" and shot back against the wall.

She looked at the boy curiously. He was young, around seven or eight, with light blonde hair and round eyes. When he made no move to introduce himself or explain what he was doing sitting on her bed, Ellie said simply, "Hi."

"You're new here," he stated.

"I… I guess I am," Ellie said amiably. "What's your name?"

"Billy. How long're you staying?"

Ellie glanced at the clock and straightened abruptly. She couldn't believe she had let herself fall asleep in the first place, but for so long? It was almost four! "I should probably get going right now," she said, more to herself than to him.

"Oh," he said, his face falling. "Forget it, then," he said, rising from the bed.

She stopped mid-motion. _Wonderful job, Ellie_, she thought, after seeing the inexplicable disappointment on his face. "Wait," she called. "I guess I could stay for a little longer," she said, the last syllables rising in tone so that it sounded more like a question. She knew she couldn't afford to stay very long.

That seemed all right with him. Billy thought about it, shrugged, then finally, sat back down. "Who are you?" He was quite direct.

"Well, my name is Ellie," she began. _I am approximately sixteen, currently jobless and relatively lost_. "And I got my arm stitched up today. See?" She rolled up her sleeves.

That did the trick. His jaw dropped open and he leaned forward to see the stitches. "Wow! Is it going to leave a scar?"

"It might leave a tiny one."

"I've only seen guys with stitches like those. You must be pretty tough. I mean, for a _girl_."

Ellie didn't know whether or not that was a compliment, but she chose to take it as one. "Thanks."

"Billy!"

They turned their attention to the front of the room where Nurse Williams stood. She shuffled into the room and set her frown upon Billy. "You're supposed to be having your meal downstairs."

He rolled his eyes. "I'm sick of soup."

"How do you expect to get strong and healthy if you don't eat your meals properly? Now go on downstairs. And don't go sneaking around anywhere. I'm going to check up on you."

Billy put on an unhappy pout but he did as he was told. "Bye, Ellie," he said, sulking.

She smiled for his sake. "Bye, Billy. It was nice meeting you."

The nurse made sure he headed downstairs before coming back to Ellie. "I apologize for that," she said. "He gets restless sometimes, being cooped up in here for months."

"Why has he been here for so long?"

She sighed. "He has a condition. It's not something we can fully treat here, unfortunately, and his family can't afford to put him in a private hospital," she explained quietly. Then, focusing on Ellie, she said happily, "You look much better now."

Ellie was discomfited knowing that she stayed much longer than she should have. "I didn't mean to fall asleep. I don't know what came over me."

"Nonsense. Dr. Phillips will be pleased to know you left looking much better than you came."

Before Ellie left, Nurse Williams gave her detailed instructions on tending to her arm and when to come back to have the stitches removed. Ellie thanked her profusely, bid her good day, and, as demurely as possible, descended the stairs to the front doors. Once she made her exit, however, Ellie broke into a run, crossing her fingers that the position on Fifth was still open…

* * *

But it was all for naught. After three hours of racing around downtown and midtown Manhattan, Ellie came up empty handed. She had been too late.

That wasn't exactly true. Yes, the position at the house on Fifth Avenue was filled earlier. And the dressmaker had found apprentices for her shop days ago. That left the last on the list: the garment factory on Orchard Street. Ellie had walked into the factory on her last legs, and maybe that had affected her judgment, but she wasn't able to endure another minute inside the building. It was hot and stuffy inside. The dense cloud of dust irritated her sight and made it difficult to breathe. She had caught a glimpse of the workers inside the gray rooms, lifeless, motionless except for their hands operating the machinery.

She tried to imagine herself in their place—sitting in an airless room, on a little stool, staring down in one direction for hours upon hours. It scared her. She couldn't bring herself to commit to a job like that. Before anyone had even noticed her presence, Ellie was out of there. It was a rash decision, she knew, considering this was no time to be picky.

With evening coming up fast, Ellie found herself sitting at the ferry docks, watching the sun descend into the horizon on another summer day. It was cooler here by the water. Across the river, she could see the borough of Queens.

The uncertainty, the newness, of the past few days made her yearn for things to go back to the way they were. Ellie missed Anne and how they used to sew together, whispering about the books they've read. She missed the sweet and savory aromas of Glenna and Nancy's cooking, and the sound of their hearty laughter. She missed Agnes' chiding—she knew Agnes only did so because she cared. Ellie even missed seeing Francesca around; she couldn't believe she actually missed her. And the cat—Ellie missed Felise too.

She had told herself numerous times to forget the past, but it was hard to let go of what she used to have when, right now, she felt like she had nothing.

Ellie rose to her feet. She couldn't go back and she couldn't stay stuck in this present. The only thing she could do now was move forward. Things were already looking up, she reminded herself, glancing at her arm. She missed her friends in Queens, but there were kind people here too: Ms. Cameron, Dr. Phillips, Nurse Williams, Billy, and the boy who had generously walked her to the hospital. _Skittery_, Ellie remembered.

Today was a setback, but tomorrow was another day.

It was getting late. The sun was rapidly waning from the sky and Ellie figured she should head back to the Girl's Home before darkness fell.

A faint tapping sounded behind her. Of course, it could have been anything, but for a reason she couldn't explain, the sound caught her attention. An ominous feeling overcame her. Her heartbeat quickened. She took a staggering breath.

And turned around.

Standing behind her, so alarmingly casual, softly slapping the flat of a small knife against her palm, was Blade.

* * *

**Author's Note:** And she has returned. I really enjoyed writing this chapter and hope it was just as fun to read.

Thanks to:  
Adren – Hurrah! I didn't take four months to update.  
Song For A Rainy Day – I tried my best to keep the time between updates shorter this time. :)  
chaoticmom – The answer to your question is coming up next. I actually included a tiny clue in this chapter, but I know that isn't very helpful until the answer is revealed!

Also, if I may include a small plug: The Newsies "Summer Reading List" Fanfiction Awards, created to recognize Newsies fanfics being written this summer, is open for nominations. Take a look at my profile for the link and more information, and please go nominate your favorite Summer 2010 stories!


	15. New Rules

**Disclaimer**: Disney owns _Newsies_ and all the wonderful characters from the movie.

**Reminder:** Rated T for language.

* * *

**Fourteen.  
New Rules**

**

* * *

**

"This is bullshit," muttered a livid voice. Its owner, a comely girl of about seventeen with coils of deep auburn hair, straightened from her position against the wall. Her green eyes flashed with anger as she turned to her neighbor. "She's had us runnin' around the damn city for two days straight. And for what? For some stupid girl that got lucky? Why are we even lookin' for her?"

The neighbor, a girl with chestnut skin and midnight locks, didn't bother to face the irate redhead when she spoke. "You know how Blade is."

The redhead's jaw tightened. She did know how inflexible their leader was, as well as the enormous amount of pride she harbored—pride that she personally thought got in the way of greater things for the rest of the girls, just like now. "I just wanna know why she's wastin' our time like this."

"She ain't wastin' our time," another girl bit back. "Use your damn brain, Tess. If that girl opens her mouth and word gets out about how we let her go, what d'ya think that would do to Blade's name, huh? What d'ya think that would do to us? People would laugh at us for letting some nobody get in our way."

Regrettably, what she said made some sense. Tess shrunk back but she was still fuming as she recalled the events of that night in Queens. They'd had a plan, a pretty good one, too, in Tess' opinion. The parts couldn't have come together better for Blade, especially, considering the personal vendetta she still carried against that guy. But then that girl had stepped in and somehow managed to screw up everything.

"What about the plan?" asked Tess. "We just gonna forget about that now?"

"We don't know, Tess. Just shut up about it."

"Don't tell me to shut up—"

"Gotta problem, Tess?" came a steely voice from the door.

Tess whipped around, coming face to face with Blade. On her heels was Beth, Blade's tall, burly right hand. Tess promptly clamped her mouth shut.

"Didn't think so." Blade walked past her to the center of the room.

'What's this for, Blade? We ain't supposed to meet 'til Wednesday."

Blade's hard eyes narrowed on the girl who spoke: Mouse, a small, blonde pickpocket they'd recently recruited. She was good at what she did, her tiny frame allowing her to move swiftly through crowds. It was why Blade and Beth picked her up, but the dense girl thought that her skills immediately put her on a higher pedestal than everyone else in the room.

The chestnut-skinned girl, Rosie, nudged Mouse sharply with her elbow. No one spoke before Blade did during their meetings.

Blade commanded their attention. "I'm here to tell ya... that you're all useless," she said, her tone decidedly harsh. "I sent you girls out to do a job, you know. But it looks like I did all the work again."

An uncomfortable silence fell amongst the girls.

"You found the girl?" Rosie asked, her voice low.

Blade stood tall and tilted her head slightly back until she was fixing them all with an icy, heavy-lidded glare. "I did."

"So… what'd ya do to her?" Mouse questioned.

"She's going to play the game with us."

"What the—are you kidding?" Tess exploded.

Beth was in front of Tess in two quick strides. Without warning, the audacious redhead was slammed hard against the wall, her body held up by her shirt collar in Beth's meaty fists.

"I'm serious, Tess," Blade said, her tone unusually smooth. "You'll see," she promised.

"_Surprised?" said Blade, catching Ellie's shocked expression and returning the greeting with a menacing curve of her lips. She approached her with brooding steps, slow, deliberate, like a hunter. "I'll give ya some credit," she said. "Didn't think it'd take this long to catch ya," she said, punctuating the statement with another strike of the knife against her open palm._

_Ellie held her breath. "I thought…" _I thought I'd be safe here._ "I thought you only stayed in Queens," she blurted._

_Blade's smirk parted and a barking laugh rang out. "Yeah? That what good ol' Swifty tell ya?"_

_It seemed like fear had a paralyzing effect on Ellie's mind for she had no idea what Blade was talking about. It all felt like a dream. The sun passed through that brief point in the sky, casting twilight and long, eerie shadows upon the earth. Blade and her ominous shadow slithered closer towards Ellie. She felt the blood draining from her face. She remained silent, still, tension leaving her muscles rigid._

_Blade stopped in front of her. She raised a brow high, her frosty eyes boring straight into her. Shaken, Ellie took a step back. The panicked hysteria, the same panicked hysteria that had driven her to perform like a madwoman that night in Queens, was threatening to rise once again. Her eyes searched the area wildly as she thought to call for help. There were dock men working in the far distance and late commuters boarding the ferry. Could she yell loud enough? Would they hear her? Were they too far away?_

"_Don't even try it," Blade cut in, her fingers tightening over her knife tellingly. She leaned in, her face inches from Ellie's. "You thought that was funny, what you did? Did ya?"_

_She was talking about what happened in Queens. No, Ellie didn't think any of it funny, but no force on earth could make her say it, not with Blade in her face holding onto the same offending knife that had slashed her arm. She crept backwards, nearing the edge of the dock, beneath which ran the beguilingly powerful East River. She couldn't pick apart which of her thoughts were rational and which were under the drug of fear, but it didn't matter; if she couldn't reach for help in time, Ellie was about willing to take her chances in the waters._

_The leader scrutinized her, hunched, the whites of her eyes prominent. "I'm making this short," Blade began, "There's a little game we play. And you're gonna be part of it."_

_Ellie, so consumed by thoughts of escape, almost didn't catch Blade's odd statement. When it finally registered, she couldn't believe she heard correctly. "A… game?"_

_Blade turned her blue eyes to the river. "Rules are simple. See, every week, the girls bring in money. Whoever brings in the least…" she trailed off purposefully. "You don't wanna be the penny pincher of the bunch."_

_Ellie was mystified. Was Blade asking her to join her gang? It didn't make sense. She had to be joking. After their encounter in Queens, there was no reason for Blade to extend such an gesture. And there was no reason for Ellie to accept it. Sounding far gutsier than she felt, Ellie returned, "Why should I join you?"_

_Her eyes narrowed. "Why? Because it's fun," she answered. Right then, Ellie opened her mouth to refuse the baffling offer—she wanted to flee from the gang, not enlist in it—but then Blade made an addendum. "And because if you don't, we know where to find that friend of yours. What was her name? That's right—that little princess, Francesca."_

_Chills ran through her. She wasn't stupid enough to miss the warning in Blade's response. It was no empty threat, either. If Ellie didn't follow along with Blade, she risked not just her own life, but Francesca's as well.  
_

"_You're bluffing," Ellie tried._

_"Bluffing, huh?" She paused. "Fancy neighborhood, that Ivy Street."_

_She swallowed hard. Blade did know. Then what choice did Ellie have? Like the boy from that night had warned when the three of them were crouching in the alley, Blade always followed through—the evidence was standing right in front of her. What she couldn't figure out, though, was why Blade was choosing to place Ellie in a money collection game, rather than letting loose with the weapon in her hand like she did last time. What was Blade not telling her?_

"_What happens to the person who brings in the least money?" Ellie dared quietly._

_She smiled again, as if she had been waiting for Ellie to ask. "The ring."_

_Ellie was left to wonder if she had asked the right question, or if any question would be followed by an instructive answer._

"_Whaddaya say?" Blade demanded._

_She wished she could say no. She wished she could have the courage to stand up for herself. But all Ellie could muster was a lifeless, dejected, "When?"_

"_Wednesday." Blade paused as she considered Ellie—to Ellie's unease—like she had her just where she wanted. "Well… 'Francesca's friend'?"_

"_It's Summers," Ellie heard herself say flatly. The idea of being called "Francesca's friend" upset her as she, once again, found herself absorbing the repercussions of the Richardson girl's actions. In the back of her mind, she knew that wasn't entirely true—not this time, anyway. But there was so much swimming in her mind at the moment that she couldn't bother with pointing the finger at herself; it felt so much easier to pin the blame on someone else for her circumstances. As for offering up her surname, Ellie just didn't want Blade calling her by her first name as though they were friends._

"_Well, Summers. Meeting is at nine, in the building on Mott and Hester." Blade turned on her heel and began to walk away. "And Summers?" she called without turning back, "If I don't see you there on Wednesday, don't be so surprised when I hunt you down again."_

_Ellie remained rooted to her spot, watching as Blade disappeared behind the crowded city streets._

Her hands shook as she lifted the cup to her lips and took a much needed sip. The lukewarm water trickled down her parched throat, but it still felt like she had dust clogged there.

Ellie had returned to the factory on Orchard Street the next day and was immediately put to work. Though she had sewn on a machine before, the frenetic pace at which the other women worked had been impossible to keep up with. Her hands suffered after just the first ten-hour day. Today had been eleven hours, with a half hour for lunch and dinner.

The factory paid by the number of completed pieces. For her second day, Ellie thought she had kept up relatively well, but when she reported to the manager, he dismissed about a third of her pile, curtly stating that they were "stitched wrong."

After work she stopped here, at a small restaurant on 12th Street a block from the Girl's Home. Ellie glanced at the crumpled newspaper lying on the edge of the table, left there by the previous patron. She set the cup down, took the paper, and flattened it on the table surface. July 24, 1899. It felt like more days had passed since her last encounter with Blade on the ferry docks, but it had only been three. Two days left, and Ellie knew she didn't have a lot of money to offer for the collection. What was the average amount of money the other girls brought in? Ellie frowned into her glass of water, watching the ripples mindlessly. There was no way to know until Wednesday.

She didn't notice the long shadow stretching over the table until a wary voice called for her attention.

"Are you following me?"

Ellie took a moment to react, shaken out of her thoughts. She looked up into a pair of dark brown eyes staring at her skeptically. Ellie straightened back before, gathering her nerves, she managed the smallest of smiles. It was the boy who had taken her to Dr. Phillips, Skittery. With that realization set, his initial question sunk in. "I'm sorry?"

"Are you following me?" he repeated as he took the seat opposite her. "First, you show up in Queens, and then on Fifth Avenue, and now here."

She knitted her brows in thought. "In Queens? I don't remem…" Her mouth dropped open. "Oh! You were talking to the newsboys about the strike!" she said, epiphany having struck her. And as though she came upon the realization herself, she added, "I knew I saw you from somewhere…"

"Yeah," Skittery said.

"Why didn't you mention it before?"

"I didn't remember then either." He took a swig of his coke. "Your boy helped me figure it out."

"My what?"

"Your—that tall kid."

How vague. "I don't have any boys who are tall." _Come to think of it…_ "I don't have any boys, for that matter," she added.

"No, that kid. The one you were, you know… defending that day in Queens."

"_Oh_, I see. You met Mort?" she asked eagerly.

Skittery coughed up his drink. Grabbing at a napkin and wiping his chin, he said, "_Mort?_ That kid's name is Mort?"

"What about it?"

"It's a funny name."

"It's a fine name. It's short for Mortimer."

Skittery raised his brows skeptically, which obviously translated to "Whatever you say."

"What kind of name is Skittery, anyway?" Ellie returned.

"Hell if I know," he said, crossing his arms. "The older fellas started calling me that and it stuck."

"The 'older fellas'?"

He nodded. "On my first night at the lodging house."

"You stay at a lodging house?"

"Yeah, on Duane Street."

"Oh." She tapped her fingers around her glass. "What's your real name, then?"

"You ask a lot of questions."

"Are you trying to change the subject?"

"Following me around, asking questions," he ticked off. "You don't work for Snyder, do ya?"

"Who?"

"Nevermind."

"You didn't answer my question."

"It's classified."

"Why?"

"'Cause it's stupid. How's your arm?"

Ellie thought she perhaps knew why the "older fellas" called him Skittery. "It's much better, thank you. Dr. Phillips was very kind."

"Smart, too. Ask the man any question, and he'll know the answer." He paused. "All right, my turn." Ellie looked at him questioningly as he leaned back in his seat. "What's your name?"

"Oh, I see." She folded her hands on her lap. "Ellie."

"Where do you live?"

"Why do you ask?"

Skittery shrugged. "I told you where I'm staying."

He had a point. "At the Girl's Home on the next block."

"Nice place. That's with Ms. Cameron?"

"Yes," she said, impressed.

He pointed at her arm. "How'd that happen?" She hesitated, and he saw it. That reaction, combined with what he had overhead at Dr. Phillips' office, made him wonder, for just a moment, what it was she was hiding. He thought better than to pursue a reply, though. After all, they were two near strangers—strangers merely passing the time before they went their separate ways. "All right, skip that one since I didn't answer one of yours."

She gave him a small smile in response. "Fair enough."

"Last one, then: what do you _see_ in that guy?"

She thought for a second, unsure of whom he was referring to. "Mort?" she ventured.

"Yeah, him."

"We've known each other since we were kids. He's a good friend," she replied simply.

Skittery covered his scoff behind his cup. "Take it from me: that kid doesn't think of you as just a 'good friend.'"

The meaning wasn't lost on Ellie. "You're the second person to suggest something like that," she said, remembering the odd conversation she had with Francesca several nights ago. "We're just friends."

He said something under his breath, obviously unconvinced. Skittery glanced at the clock and was startled by the time. 7:40. He should have been out the door ten minutes ago.

"You have somewhere to go," Ellie noticed.

"Yeah," Skittery said, searching through his pockets to pay for his drink. "Irving Hall. Us newsies are having a big rally there tonight. You should come." He only realized what he said when he heard his words out loud. Skittery wasn't sure what compelled him to invite her, but he shrugged it off after a second's musing. He figured the newsies needed as much support as they could muster, anyway.

"Goddammit," he muttered, coming up with a single caked penny from his jacket pocket. Skittery needed another one to pay for his drink. Pursing his lips, he eyed the door and wondered how fast he could make it out of the restaurant.

"Here," she offered suddenly, pressing a copper coin onto the table and pushing it towards him. "I owe you for taking me to the hospital yesterday," she said.

Skittery's brows snapped together. "That was for saving my neck on Fifth. We're already square."

"Oh." But she made no move to retract the penny.

Before Skittery could push the coin back at her, a voice came over his shoulder. "Who's this?" It was the waiter, Memphis, a thin, lanky fellow who used to be a newsie himself until a couple of years ago. "Skittery, Skittery. Heard you kids were on strike. An—what's this? You're actually _paying_ today? I never thought I'd see the day," he said when he spied the two pennies on the table. His eyes hovered over to Ellie as he scooped up the change, missing Skittery's attempt to swipe back her penny. With arched brows and a silly grin, Memphis said to Skittery, "A special friend, is it?"

"Nice seein' ya, Memphis."

When Memphis left to tend to the next table, Ellie asked, "What did he mean by a special friend?" The two rose from their table and proceeded towards the door.

Skittery paused to stare at her. "You haven't been out much, have you?"

She tilted her head to the side in thought as she passed through the door he held open. "What does that have to do with it?" she attempted slowly.

He chuckled, taking that as a no. "Wow," he said softly. Ellie eyed him suspiciously. "I guess that's what happens when you hang out with a kid called _Mort_," he said, dimly recalling the protective look in Mort's eyes yesterday.

Ellie was about to ask him to stop making fun of her friend when an excited cry diverted the pair's attention. A group of girls made their way towards them. When they drew closer, Ellie recognized them—they were the lodgers from the Girl's Home. Their procession was led by Brenda—her sister was not far behind, visibly sulking—who gave a quick wave.

"Skittery," she greeted. "Shouldn't you be at Irving Hall?"

Skittery, who had removed his cap in the girls' presence, shrugged casually. "On my way now."

"Great! We're going now too," said Brenda.

Skittery looked to Ellie, tilting his head ever so slightly to the right, asking if she was going to come along. Ellie gave a tired smile and shook her head imperceptibly in return, pointing to the left, in the direction of the Girl's Home. He nodded in understanding.

"You should come with us," Brenda suggested suddenly. "Ellie, right? The newsies need all the help we can get."

She was taken aback by the open invitation. Brenda had never addressed her before tonight. While Ellie wanted to accept the gesture in hopes that it would alleviate the awkwardness at the Girls' Home, there was so much on her mind that she needed time to straighten out. Unfortunately, she felt the increasing pressure of all the eyes on her.

A tall, slender girl with brown and blonde curls stepped forward and smiled amiably. Ellie recognized her from brief moments during the morning rush hour in the washroom. The girl's green eyes shone with sympathy. "Let's go," she said brightly. "Medda Larkson's supposed to be performing tonight. We can laugh at all the boys hooting when she does."

It was her enthusiasm that did Ellie in.

And so, despite her plans, she ended up following the group to Irving Hall. It was a short trip—only several blocks east. Brenda walked ahead with Skittery, asking him about the same Jack she was constantly talking about at the Girl's Home. Miranda wasn't far behind them, listening to every word her sister was saying and occasionally sighing.

Ellie and the girl who had persuaded her to join rounded out the back. The girl formally introduced herself. "I'm Stress," she said.

"Ellie," she returned, feeling a load lightening inside her. It had been an uncomfortable and—though she was reluctant to admit it—lonely couple of days at the Girl's Home. Her roommates generally ignored her, and thus she couldn't help but feel like an outcast whenever she was in the room. She looked out at the small group heading to the rally. What had changed? Why had they asked her to go with them?

It was Stress who cleared the cloud of confusion. "You'll have to forgive them," she said, nodding towards the sisters in front. "They're nice girls, I guess, but after what happened, they just stopped talking to everyone. Except Leslie, that is—she's been their friend for ages."

"'What happened'?"

"Oh, yeah. There was this girl a couple of weeks ago. Shared the room with those two. She left only after a few days—on the _same exact_ day Miranda and Brenda's savings disappeared. They've been saving up all their money to help their little brother. He's been in the hospital for a_ really_ long time. Poor kid. Anyway, they threw a fit when they found all their savings missing. Ms. Cameron searched the entire place and there was no trace of it, so we're pretty sure it was that girl. It was bad. Still is, actually. The two have been fighting a lot."

That explained the chilly reception Ellie received on her first day. Now that she knew their story, she couldn't blame them for not trusting a complete stranger. But then…

"Why did Brenda ask me to come?" Ellie whispered.

Stress inhaled slowly. "Because of Jack Kelly," she answered. "Jack wants this rally to be the 'biggest, loudest, noisiest blowout this town has ever seen,'" she recited as she shook her head, though a soft smile played upon her lips.

There was that name again. "Who's Jack Kelly?"

She smiled faintly. "You'll see."

Before they knew it, the group had arrived onto 15th Street. They heard the crowd before they saw it. The excitement was palpable. From a block away, on Third Avenue, the group spied the cavalcade of people gathered outside the theater. Above them, a billboard of a sultry woman in lavender rested over the dazzling lights illuminating Irving Hall.

The mass was comprised of boys mostly, and they proudly displayed makeshift signs announcing various regions of New York: Coney Island, West Side, Queens.

_Queens_. Ellie craned her neck, searching, wondering if she could find Mort or recognize any of his friends, but there were so many people that she couldn't pick out any familiar faces before she got carried into the theater with the rest of the crowd.

Inside the theater, the buzz and energy and din rose to startling heights. As they moved further into the theater, pushing past a busy photographer and more cheering newsies, Ellie decided Jack Kelly succeeded in making the Newsies Rally the "biggest, loudest, noisiest blowout." No more seats were available to accommodate all who had come to the rally. The mezzanine, the balconies, were overflowing with young newsboys. Others stood along the walls, in the aisles, pushing each other and shoving heads to get a better view of the stage.

Skittery pressed forward towards the stage, raising a hand at his friends who sarcastically applauded his late arrival. The girls, on the other hand, were attracted to the corner in the front where a number of other females had already gathered. Several tables were set up in this area, though those seats, like the others, were filled. Ellie followed Stress to an open spot along the wall and turned her eyes to the brightly lit stage.

Three boys stood upon the center of the elevated platform, looking out at the theater with satisfied expressions. The tallest of the trio waved his arms, signaling them to settle down. He waited for the applause to die down and when it did, he shouted, "Carrying the Banner!" The newsies roared back to life, jumping up from their seats, waving their signs high in the air.

Stress pointed at the stage, at the boy who had just galvanized the crowd. "_That's_ Jack Kelly," she explained to Ellie.

The theater quieted, allowing Jack to begin. "So! We've come a long way, but we ain't there yet and maybe it's only gonna get tougher from now on. But that's fine, we'll just get tougher with it! But also," he said, throwing an arm around a boy with a brown, curly mop of hair, "also, we gotta get smart and start listening to my pal, David—who says, stop soakin' the scabs."

This didn't seem to sit well with some. "Well, what're we supposed to do to the bums, kiss 'em?" one called out.

The third boy on stage—the one in red suspenders—stepped in with an intensity that belied his slighter stature. "Hey look, any scab I see, I soak 'im. _Period_."

The assembly cheered, causing the one called David to leap forward. "No! No, no, that's what they want us to do! If we get violent, it's just playing into their hands."

"Hey look, they're gonna be playing with my hands, all right?" Red Suspenders fired back. "'Cause it ain't what they say, it's what we say. And nobody ain't gonna listen to us unless we make 'em."

Division erupted amongst the newsboys. Ellie and Stress eyed each other anxiously as the situation teetered dangerously close to breaking into violence.

"You got no brains," Jack said, his voice cutting through the heated disagreements. "Why we startin' to fight each other—it's just what the big shots wanna see! That we're street trash, street rats with no brains! No respect for nothin' including ourselves. So here's how it is. If we don't act together, then we're nothin'. If we don't stick together, we're nothin'. And if we can't even trust each other, then we're nothin'!"

"Tell 'em, Jack!" encouraged a newsie hanging precariously off a balcony.

"So, what's it gonna be?" Jack asked the newsboys.

A murmur of agreement echoed through the hall, paired with conceding nods.

Jack Kelly turned to the one in red suspenders. "So what d'you say, Spot?"

Spot hesitated a long moment, observing with sharp eyes at the newsboys holding their breaths, eagerly waiting for his answer. "I say," he began, "that what you say… is what I say." They spit into their palms and shook hands to seal the accord.

And then the trio raised their linked hands high, and the theater exploded with applause just as its lights dimmed. The spotlight pointed at drawn curtains, revealing the charismatic Medda Larkson, the Swedish Meadowlark. She began to sing, her voice clear, a trace of an accent flowing through her words. It must have been a song she performed often, for many others sang along.

Ms. Larkson stopped at the bridge for a few seconds. She smiled proudly, her blue eyes shimmering with affected emotions. Ellie could relate to her feelings. The loyalty and trust—the brotherhood—the newsboys had just demonstrated was more than impressive. They were challenging some of the most powerful men in New York, and yet, there was no fear in their eyes. They celebrated the moment instead—the moment they became a union.

Medda Larkson resumed her performance, rousing the crowd of newsboys to its feet. Stress was right about the boys. Some rooted wildly, their eyes straining from their sockets, others stared dreamily at the vaudeville songstress, and all looked rather silly. Stress rolled her eyes at their antics and even Ellie found herself swayed by the celebratory mood.

It was because of that mood that they didn't notice something was wrong. Suddenly, shrill whistles blew from all directions. Policemen wielding clubs and non-uniformed men swarmed into the theater. The atmosphere spiraled down so swiftly that confusion and chaos exploded in its place.

"It's the bulls," Stress said, eyes wide with panic.

Ellie could barely register what was going on with all the disarray around them. "The wha—right, the police. But why are they _here_?" To the girls' horror, the police tackled the newsboys, striking them with their clubs, holding them down and dragging them out when they were down. It was madness. Ellie had never seen such an outburst of mass violence. What was going on?

"I don't know, but we have to get out of here," she said. Stress searched for the nearest exit, and as she did, her eyes caught on something on stage. She froze.

Ellie followed her line of sight, and saw Jack and David being confronted by a sneering, white-haired man in black.

"Jack," Stress whispered. She started towards him.

Ellie realized what Stress meant to do and, in alarm, grasped the girl's elbow and pulled her back. "We have to go," she urged.

"But—"

"Miss Ellie?"

Ellie turned to see Ricky, one of the newsies from Queens, up on the stage. And behind him, to her enormous relief, was an even more familiar face.

"Mort…"

He appeared just as surprised as she felt. "Ellie? What're you…"

Ricky cut him off impatiently. "Talk later, Mort. Make sure the kids get outta here, I'll go find Evans. Miss Ellie, Miss Ellie's friends—this way," he said, gesturing them urgently towards the back of the stage. He jumped off in search of the Queens leader, barreling into an approaching officer to keep him away from the kids and girls trying to escape.

Ellie saw Stress looking back to where Jack had been, but he was no longer there. Distress lined her face as she scanned the area. Disorder reigned still, making it difficult to distinguish one form from another. Unable to locate him, she gathered herself and helped to hurry the younger kids ahead of them. Ellie and Stress emerged on the other side of the curtain soon after. The young boys were huddled together as far away from the curtains as possible, all of their eyes wide with worry. Mort had situated himself by the stage door. He watched Ellie with anxious brown eyes and she tried to put on a reassuring smile for her old friend. It faltered. She just couldn't ignore the continuing battle beyond the curtain.

Brenda, Miranda and Leslie and the other girls stood to in the far corner, with Brenda hopping from one foot to the other in nervous concern.

"You think he'll be all right?" Brenda asked.

"Probably not," Miranda answered flatly. "Not if Warden Snyder's out there."

It hardly seemed possible that only a few minutes passed as the hiding group waited for a sign of clearing. The sign came in the form of Ricky. He leapt in through the heavy curtain, gulping in air as he caught his breath. "Outside," he managed between swallows. "Evans and the fellas are keepin' the bulls busy. Go now," he ordered, pointing a tired finger at the door.

Mort acted quickly, pulling open the exit. The young boys streamed out hastily, pushing and squeezing past each other, and the girls were on their heels, eager to flee from the chaos.

Ellie stopped short. She turned round to Ricky. "What happened to the others?" she questioned. Though, if she were honest with herself, what she really wanted to know was what happened with one particular person.

Ricky removed his cap and wiped his brow with his shirtsleeve. His tone was solemn. "Most of the others got out, but some of Jack's boys weren't so lucky."

Stress whirled at that. "And Jack?"

He shook his head. "If you ask me, they were after him the whole time."

"They're—are they going to _jail_?" Ellie asked.

"Looks like it," he said, sighing. "Just when things were startin' to look up."

* * *

_Just when things were startin' to look up._

Ricky's parting words echoed in Ellie's mind. Two nights ago, the Newsies Rally turned from a night of unification into a frenzied dissolution. Five nights ago, Ellie resolved to get her life back on track, only to be found by the person who had shaken it up in the first place. In both instances, a step forward was obstructed, shoved backwards even.

Ellie stood on the corner of Mott and Hester Street, in front of what looked like the ruins of a tenement. In just the few days that she'd been in Manhattan, she had seen her share of shocking misfortune. But to think that anyone would still occupy a place like this… to think that anyone could_ allow_ people to occupy a place like this was beyond comprehension. Charred metal and wood on the face of the building suggested a fire in recent history, while fallen pieces of bricks at the foot of it hinted at disrepair and a complete loss of hope. The rotting trash in front of the building secreted an unbearable stench.

This was where Blade and her gang wanted to meet.

She tried in vain to keep her nerves in check. Something inside her screamed, telling her to turn around and run back to the Girl's Home. Ellie wasn't purposely ignoring the terrified voice as she stayed still in front of the building. There was Blade's threat playing in her mind, and there was no doubt she would make good on that threat regarding Francesca, but an even greater force was at work in Ellie:

Self-preservation. It told her to run. But if she ran, Blade would only come looking for her again, angrier still. Then it told her to stay. But if she stayed—Ellie stared up at the darkened tenement—what was going to happen to her tonight?

It was time to find out. A tall, brawny girl stepped out of the shadows of the front door. Her expression was unreadable. "Summers," she called looking straight at Ellie. Then she retreated inside.

Ellie was obviously meant to follow. _It's not too late_, the voice inside persuaded, causing her to break and take a small step back. But when the girl came back out, this time with a clearly readable expression that translated to rising annoyance, there were no choices left.

Ellie headed inside.

It was dark. The only light in the restricted hallway was the flickering flame ahead of her, held by the girl who had summoned Ellie. The floorboards creaked under their feet, the noise underscoring the eerie silence. The girl opened a door at the end of the hallway and disappeared inside. Fearful of the dark without the candlelight, Ellie hurried to catch up to her long strides. In her haste, though, she narrowly missed stumbling down the stairs.

The door lead to the basement. A stronger light source radiated from below. Ellie slowly descended, grasping at the wall. To add to her growing anxiety, the wood bowed under her weight. It seemed that at any moment she would fall through.

The room itself was a mess from what she could discern. The wallpaper and paint were blackened, hanging off in tattered pieces from the walls and ceiling. Chairs with ripped cushions and broken legs were scattered around the room. Rags, battered shoes, old matches, scraps of torn paper littered the floor, covered by a layer of grime and dust.

A soft chuckle sounded when Ellie reached the ground. Looking up she felt her heart pound faster as she saw a group of six girls standing around an unlevel round table, upon which a single lamp rested. The burly girl who brought Ellie down took her place immediately to Blade's left, who sat in the back, partially covered in shadow. The girls stared at Ellie.

Blade finally jumped up from a frayed couch and slinked forward until she was standing with the group. "Ya made it, Summers," she said, a mysterious smirk on her face. She beckoned Ellie to join the others at the table.

Ellie took a quivering breath and stepped forward.

"All right," announced Blade, clapping her hands together. "Empty 'em."

_Empty what?_ was Ellie's reaction, but the meaning became clear as the girls reached deep into their pockets and pulled out a staggering amount of coins and dollars. One at a time, they tossed the money onto the table. Blade's brows were furrowed as she studied the increasing sum. One small blonde girl, grinning haughtily, presented an unbelievable eight dollars—a total that would've taken Ellie more than a month to save with her current job.

"Summers."

Her eyes tore away from the crumpled bills and snapped back to Blade. The leader pointed expectantly at Ellie's dress pocket.

Panic grabbed her. She clutched at the paltry amount of change in her pocket, recalling Blade's words from five days ago: _"You don't wanna be the penny pincher of the bunch…"_ It was hopeless. Feeling the icy heat growing behind Blade's eyes, Ellie slowly drew out her hand and dropped the coins onto the table in front of her.

Scoffs and snickers broke out instantly. "You've gotta be kidding," muttered a girl with coils of red hair.

A pleased smile crossed Blade's face. "Shame, Summers. You didn't even try. But, uh, we're a fair group here. You know, it's your first day and all. So… you know what? You know what, we're gonna give you a break today. Just this one time. So… second lowest, second lowest…" Blade skimmed through the money in each girl's pile. Her smile grew wide. "Tess."

The redhead's jaw twitched. "Yeah, Blade?"

"You get to be the first one to try out the new rules. Beth," she said, signaling to the brawny girl to her left.

Tess' eyes became suspicious slits. "What new ru—what the _hell_ are you doin'?" she exclaimed when Beth grabbed her by the arm.

Beth dragged the protesting girl to the other side of the room. Until that moment, Ellie hadn't noticed the gaping hole in the wall to her right. The gap was so immense that it rendered the wall into a waist-high fence. A mound of rubble from the damage lined the floor. Beyond the partition was an open room, equally as dirty as the one they were standing in now, except it was cleared of all furniture. Beth all but flung Tess over the wall, then stepped over herself.

Tess leapt to her feet, her eyes blazing. "What do you think you're doin'?" she spat, her venom directed at Beth.

"New rules, Tess," Blade cut in. "You bring in the least, you get put in the ring."

And that was when Beth threw a powerful backhanded blow at Tess' disbelieving face.

* * *

**Author's Note:** The nomination period for the Summer Reading List FF Awards is scheduled to end today (Friday)! There may be an extension if we don't get enough nominees, so please look out for the news. There have been so many great Newsies fics this summer - please nominate your favorites! The link is in my profile. :)

Back to _Stolen_…

I just noticed that I started this story three years ago. It doesn't feel like it has been that long and, considering I began this as a writing exercise, I'm not so sure I improved much. I'm still working on that. ;) That said, I'm really looking forward to wrapping this up. I've spent a good couple of days plotting out the next chapters and am hoping that the upcoming Miss Addleton story arc, the main element for Ellie's growth as a character, will keep me motivated.

Again, I want to thank everyone who has given _Stolen_ a chance, even with all of its flaws. Thank you to everyone who generously provided feedback thus far. And on that note, thank you to Adren and stress for your reviews! Stress, I hope you don't mind my borrowing your character for this chapter!


	16. Stand Up

**Disclaimer**: Disney owns _Newsies_ and all the wonderful characters from the movie.

* * *

**Fifteen.  
Stand Up**

**

* * *

**

The scene swam in her head for days. The memory of what happened haunted her especially at night, when everyone was asleep and the quiet of the dark took over. In her youth, those moments of quiet had been rare gifts in such a busy household. She had grabbed at the moments eagerly, to think and to daydream about romantic adventure, like in the short novels Anne and she had sneakily "borrowed" from the Richardson's library. That was years ago. After what she witnessed in that first meeting with Blade, the quiet moments she had so cherished had suddenly become maddening.

Thinking that if she were exhausted enough she would be able to sleep through the quiet nights, Ellie immersed herself in her work. Though she was initially frightened away by the job conditions, each passing day brought a further familiarity with the garment factory on Orchard Street. She was almost keeping pace with the more experienced workers even. It wasn't easy, however, sitting on the narrow stool and squinting into the relative dimness to match the stitching patterns. Her fingers, hands, were suffering from the sudden strain. Still, a large chunk of her finished pieces was always deemed incorrect; she never received the wages she expected after all the effort she put in.

And each day, the anxiety grew. Counting her earnings every night, Ellie kept seeing herself in Tess' place: beaten down and bloody and filled with regret for not having worked harder to get more money. The fear drove her like it would a terrified, clambering coward. She wasn't going to put in the most money—that Ellie knew from the staggering amount she observed the others bring in that night. She just needed enough to escape the ring and Beth.

But it was already Wednesday morning. An entire week had sped past as if time itself wanted to send Ellie into that ring.

The morning sun was just peaking up from the horizon. Ellie left the Girl's Home earlier than usual to get started at work as soon as possible. At this hour, though, she would be waiting outside the factory before it even opened. As she headed to work, not yet quite awake, she felt the warmth and sensed the sweet aromas of freshly baked breads and pastries wafting towards her. Coming up to her right was a bread shop. She passed by this and numerous other bread shops every day, but she felt compelled to stop in front of it today. _Viennese Bakery_, she read as she slowed to a halt beneath the shop's awning. She caught a glimpse of the baker busily setting and filling up the shelves from warm crusty breads, bread sticks, and rolls. They had already arranged the window shelves with intricate white lace and baskets full of baked goods to entice patrons, and it was working well.

Of course she couldn't afford to, but Ellie was tempted for a taste. She continued to stand there, entranced by the smell of warm food, reminded of sweltering days in the kitchen when Nancy baked bread for the Richardsons.

Not too far from the Viennese Bakery were three boys bustling door to door, distributing copies of the _Newsies Banner_. Pie Eater, Snoddy, and Skittery had been making the rounds in the neighborhood, humbly asking for support of the Newsies cause. The plan was to hold another rally at Newspaper Row at noon. This time, though, the newsies hoped to have the support of other exploited child workers. It was important, therefore, to spread the word as quickly as possible within the next few hours.

The three newsboys were just about to turn into Sixth Street and onto Second Avenue when Skittery, drawn by the whiff of fresh breads, absentmindedly gazed up the block towards its source. He did a double take when he saw Ellie standing there in front of the bakery. He had been joking when he asked her if she was following him last week at the restaurant, but now he had to wonder—_was she _really_ following him around?_

"Hey Skittery, you comin'?" asked Pie from ahead.

"Huh. Yeah… yeah, I'll catch up with you fellas," Skittery said inattentively, already walking away from them.

Snoddy raised a brow, shared a shrug with Pie, and shot a confused look towards where Skittery was heading. What he saw caused his face to break into a wide grin. He went running back to Pie and, clapping his friend's shoulder, excitedly whispered, "He's seein' a girl!"

Skittery sidled closer and closer to the bakery, watching Ellie curiously, until he was standing right next to her. The girl barely flinched, didn't even notice his presence. He studied her profile for a long moment, and was surprised to see a look of torn longing in her face. Skittery inhaled softly. He knew that look well. Directing his gaze into the bakery, Skittery cleared his throat deliberately.

He saw her eyes changing, going out and back into focus, until they finally met his through the reflection in the window. She started, whipping around to face him.

"You're okay," she said, relief in her voice. Her face softened instantly, leaving no trace of the pained expression she had on just seconds before.

Skittery arched his brows high in genuine surprise. The change in her was so abrupt he almost doubted what he had seen earlier.

"At the rally," she elaborated, misinterpreting his reaction, "the police made arrests… I thought they put you in jail."

That pulled him out of his thoughts. "Yeah, they did, those bastards," he answered tensely. Then with a frown, he asked, "You saw all that?" He was sure he had seen her run backstage with the other girls when the cops and thugs infiltrated the rally. She couldn't have seen the riot that amassed outside in the lobby, when the guys frenziedly tried to get Jack back from the grips of the policemen—only to be cuffed themselves.

She shook her head delicately. "Ricky," Ellie supplied, "he explained what happened."

Ricky, of course. All around good guy with a sharp ear for information.

"Got out on bail," Skittery said before quickly adding, "Here, hold onto these." He dumped the stack of _Newsies Banners_ into her surprised arms.

She blinked at the papers, but her mind lingered on his last statement. "But that must have been a fortune," she gaped.

"Yeah, for Denton. Paid for every single one of us. Nice guy. Come on," he said, gesturing to her as he walked to the door of the bakery.

"What are you doing?" she whispered urgently, scurrying to follow him despite the shot of worry she felt from the manner of his stride.

Skittery paused at the door. "Distract the baker, will ya?" With that, he pushed the door open.

"I'm sorry?"

But he was already inside. Though tremendously confused, she hurried in after him.

The towering, white-haired pastry chef at the counter was watching them, the potential customers, with interest. "May I help you?" he asked, his voice thick with a European inflection.

Distracted by Skittery's mysterious behavior, Ellie didn't expect the baker to address them first. Skittery turned around and gave her a short, meaningful glance, directing her with a flick of his brown eyes to the man at the counter.

"Yes," she said slowly, frowning in Skittery's direction before flashing a wide smile at the baker. She had no idea why Skittery was asking her to provide a distraction, but she figured she would find out soon enough.

With the fragrant, homey tints hanging delightfully in the air, Ellie found little difficulty in searching for something to say. "Can you point me to that wonderful smell? It's a bit like a roll, but there's also something sweet"—she sniffed the air thoughtfully—"like peaches? Or maybe apricots?"

"Ah, yes, young ma'am," the man said enthusiastically. "The _buchteln_—that is what you are smelling." He pointed towards a tray lined with what looked like a cross between a small cake and a dinner roll.

"The _bul_—?"

"_Buchteln_," he repeated for her. "Sweet dumplings, with apricot filling."

"_Oh_, I see."

"Very delicious. You have a good nose," he said.

She chuckled, slightly embarrassed. "Thank you. Actually, I used to help cook and—" she began to explain, but a sharp poke at her elbow brought her attention back to Skittery. He was heading out. "Um, thank you again… for the _buchteln_," Ellie said apologetically—the man looked baffled by her sudden leaving—and scuttled out the door.

"What was that about?" she asked when she reached him already several yards away.

Before he could answer, an outraged shout came from behind them. "Hey! Hey, you!"

Ellie twisted around to see the baker standing just outside his shop and yelling angrily after them.

"Cheese it!" Skittery alerted. He took off but managed only a few steps before realizing that Ellie, deeply perplexed, continued to stand awkwardly in the middle of the street. He sighed, turned round, grabbed her hand and, despite her surprised protest, pulled her to run with him.

They dashed down the block, veering to the right onto Sixth Street, turning right into Second Avenue. They continued their frantic pace for another two blocks. When Skittery felt they put a safe distance behind them, he slowed his pace. Ellie stopped to catch her breath, looking nervously over her shoulder. "What's going on?" she demanded between huffs, trying to gather her wits. She moved to push back the loosened strands of dark hair from her eyes but was impeded, to her surprise, by her lack of free hands. One arm was holding onto Skittery's papers. The other…. Her eyes, and subsequently his, dropped abruptly to their still linked fingers.

Both hastily withdrew their hands.

Several beats of silence passed. Skittery, then, stiffly took back the papers from her and, drawing a breath, spoke finally. "Here," he offered simply. "For paying for my drink."

He held out a large yellow muffin. Upon laying eyes on the round cake and catching its sweet corn scent, Ellie's stomach lurched for it greedily. Thankfully, she still retained enough sense to stop herself from ravenously swiping the food from him.

"You stole that," she stated, understanding at last what had just conspired at the bakery.

"Yeah. Sometimes it's either that or starve," he said bluntly.

She looked saddened by the harsh truth in his statement. "I've never stolen anything before," Ellie said in a low voice.

"So you've got a clean record."

"But I just helped you," she insisted, frowning, a fierce debate taking place behind her dark eyes.

He considered that. "Unknowingly. Look, I ain't returning this. If you don't want it, that means more for me which is just fine with—"

She moved so quickly that Skittery hardly registered the muffin was taken from him. Ellie split the small cake and placed the half back onto his open hand before he even had time to blink.

"Just this once," he heard her say to herself quietly.

He had thought, for a moment, that she would forego her hunger to be a stickler for morals. When he saw her half of the bread already in her mouth, however, it was confirmation of what he had seen earlier: the expression on Ellie's face when she was standing alone in front of the bakery—it wasn't the face of someone with a passing fancy for some sweets. It was the face of someone famished, of one who had barely eaten in days. And Skittery, with his years as a newsboy working on the streets, was all too familiar with that look. And he knew that anyone who experienced that sort of hunger eventually got to a point when morals—like the one warning against stealing—became subjective, murky, another oppressive nuisance laid down by society.

"We're square now," he said with finality.

The slightest hint of mirth flickered across her face as she shook her head doubtfully. "This is never going to end, is it?"

He quirked a brow in question. "What d'ya mean?"

Sighing, Ellie explained, "You know this muffin is worth more than the penny I gave."

He let out a groan, though his amusement came through in his eyes.

They walked up the street in amiable silence—Skittery looking for his friends, Ellie heading to work—as they had their breakfast. Ellie nearly swallowed down her half. From the corner of his eye, he spied her chewing on her last bite thoughtfully, scrutinizing him.

"What?" he asked.

Startled that he caught her looking, Ellie flushed slightly. She swallowed the rest of her muffin before tentatively asking, "Why are you carrying a walking stick?"

That was a question he hadn't heard in a while. Skittery felt the thin wooden cane under his arm. It had been a little over two years since he began taking the walking stick everywhere with him. "It helps me sell papers," he said.

She pondered for a brief moment. "I hope you don't use it to scare kids away from your selling spot," she said.

The theory garnered a chortle. He had started carrying the walking stick with him when, as he passed the age of fourteen, Skittery began to notice his diminishing sales. No longer did he have the same paper-selling prowess as he did when he was, say, nine. Even at twelve. At fifteen, he joined the faction of newsboys on the uncertain brink of adulthood. Fighting a losing sales battle against hundreds of other—younger—newsies, but still needing to stay afloat to survive, Skittery adopted a trademark. It wasn't the most creative one, but he had found the walking stick lying around idly in a dusty corner of the lodging house one evening. On a whim, he took it with him the next morning. And the next morning, and the next after that. It helped, somewhat. People picked up on his presence more. After all, it was hard to miss someone shouting a headline _and_ waving a walking stick in your face.

Of course, the trademark didn't make him filthy rich—he'd never heard of anyone getting filthy rich from selling papes—but the walking stick became part of his routine long before he realized its effects had worn off at sixteen.

Now in his seventeenth year, Skittery had no disillusions about the impending future. He was already pushing his limit as a newsboy and with year eighteen bearing down on him, it meant he would no longer be allowed to sleep under the Duane Street Lodging House's roof. For all he knew, this strike could be the last of his battles as a newsie. If they succeeded in bringing the price back down, Skittery going to seriously focus on saving up for the future. He _had_ to.

Ellie stopped. "I think your friends are waiting for you."

Skittery raised his eyes to see Snoddy and Pie standing just outside the backdoor of a small corner building: a boardinghouse for working girls. Snoddy had that stupid knowing smirk on his face while Pie stared in disbelief. As Skittery glanced at the girl to his right, he knew exactly what his friends were thinking.

He cleared his throat. "So, uh, the newsies are having another rally at Newspaper Row," he announced, handing her a copy of the Newsies Banner. "This afternoon."

Ellie took the sheet, quickly reading over its contents. "You're all so brave for doing this," she whispered to herself. Despite the setbacks, despite being arrested, the newsboys were still standing—and fighting back.

Skittery had heard her whispered awe. He snorted in response. "Yeah, well…" He trailed off, flashing back on the week's events since the strike began. "Sometimes you gotta stand up for yourself, right?"

Something about the way he said it triggered Ellie's mind to recede into its memories. Suddenly she was nine, sitting on a park bench and comforting a ten year old stranger whom she had barely managed to pull out of a scrap.

A couple of days before when Ellie found him selling his papers on Fifth Avenue, Mort had referenced that same scene, quoting something she had said that sunny afternoon seven years ago. Odd that she hadn't been able to remember what Mort was talking about then, but hearing Skittery say it now, she recalled the exchange clearly.

"_I wanted to ask you," asked a timid Mort, "what's your name?"_

_ "Ellie Summers," she had answered. "What's yours?"_

_ "Mort," he said. Then after a pause: "You're really brave."_

_She had liked the sound of that, to be called brave like the heroes in the books Ms. Hutchins read to Francesca. But she knew she wasn't like them. "I'm not brave," she mumbled honestly. "But sometimes you have to stand up for yourself, right?"_

"We'd really appreciate it if you could spread the word. You know, if you want," Skittery said, his voice breaking through Ellie's thoughts.

She shook off the remnants of the memory. "Yes, of course," Ellie offered.

Skittery glanced at his friends before nodding at Ellie. "See ya, then."

And they parted ways.

As she headed forward, she felt the change inside immediately. Only one block away, Ellie was compelled to turn around and steal one last curious look at Skittery.

Until recent events, Ellie thought she had grown to become decent at playacting—that is, pretending easiness when she was feeling anything but. Years of perfecting a convincing smile and curtsy under Agnes' strict watch and the Richardson's fearsome gaze had had much to do with that. Though those years had been difficult, she was grateful for them: they had cemented for her the idea of the restorative power of a single smile. Agnes' teachings were about putting on a show for others, but to Ellie, they also became a method of reassuring herself. Whenever she got in trouble with the Richardsons, or she felt the twisting envy for Francesca's beautiful dresses, or she unsuccessfully tried to piece together memories of her father, Ellie pulled back her lips, pulled them back taut into a forced smile. Her mind, shackled into melancholy in those long moments, followed the simple physical motion and was freed to climb out of its rut.

She didn't understand why it worked and she didn't bother questioning it. She only practiced it—to keep herself out of trouble, for the sake of others, and to keep her own tears at bay—to the point where even her oldest friend, Mort, couldn't see past the smiling face.

But it was different with Skittery. In the brief moments she had spent with him—a stranger, an acquaintance at best—Ellie felt honest. Just minutes before, she had even snatched the bread from his hand like a rude child, revealing how famished she truly was.

This was strange of her. Agnes had taught her better than that.

_But_, she thought, _maybe it's not me_. He had _known_ she was hungry, she was sure of it. She did try to hide it, and he had seen past the façade.

That wasn't all that was bothering her. Skittery also put her mind at ease. Somehow, he commanded her attention, coercing everything else on her mind to rest. Considering her current troubles with Blade, this new realization unnerved her.

And yet, she found herself welcoming the distraction he provided.

With the questions swirling around in her head, the trek to the factory didn't seem to take any time at all. Her intention to arrive early failed, however, as she spotted a group of girls pushing past the factory door.

Ellie quickened her pace until she merged with the group and exchanged polite morning cordialities. She didn't know the girls well enough to strike up a conversation, but, in exchange for the bread, she decided it was the least she could do for Skittery. She drew in a breath and asked the girls if they had heard about the rally at Newspaper Row.

"Newspaper Row?" one girl asked as they hurried to their stations. "It's not the newsies rally, is it?"

"It is," Ellie confirmed.

"What's their strike got to do with us?" another voiced, uninterested.

Ellie pulled from her skirt pocket the _Newsies Banner_ and passed it along to the skeptical girls, letting the infinitely more eloquent Bryan Denton do the explaining. The thin paper made its rounds, but before anyone could voice their opinion, the petulant foreman stomped into the room. His beady eyes scanned the room of working girls and they complied silently, grabbing at rolls of fabric and starting up their machines.

As the usual workday proceeded, no one spoke for hours.

Not until there came the rumblings from outside.

At a quarter before noon, an unusual cacophony coasted into the factory through the windows. Shocked, the girls shot up from their seats and huddled at the two windows.

Peering down into the streets below, they saw a flock of courier boys flying by on their bicycles, followed by a marching mass of girls and boys—factory and sweatshop workers, bootblacks, newsies, street sweepers.

"Will ya look at that?" whispered one in amazement.

"I can't believe it," said another girl, smiling. "Looks like Jack Kelly got himself a real rally. I don't know about you girls, but I'm not missing this." Picking up her skirts, she turned round and made for the exit.

The others, their excitement now palpable, immediately scurried after her. Only Ellie and one young girl remained, both on the fence for they were unwilling to lose a day's earnings.

Then the foreman rushed into the room, his face showing his incredulity, baffled by the girls suddenly taking their leave.

"What the hell is goin' on here?" he shouted angrily.

For the young girl Mildred, that was the deciding point. Raising her chin high, she stared at the man straight in the eyes. "We're goin' on strike, sir."

Mildred's spirited response left Ellie feeling slightly abashed, selfish and cowardly. And that was Ellie's deciding point.

They hurried down the stairs and joined the strikers advancing towards the rally site. It was only several blocks down from Orchard. With each block they passed, with every step they took closing in on Park Row, the din of the crowd grew. They crossed Canal Street onto Division, then merged onto Bowery until they hit Park Row, otherwise known as Newspaper Row.

From every street poured in more strikers. Newspaper Row was overwhelmed and engulfed by the working children of New York. Chants of "Strike!" and ecstatic cheers echoed through the air. Picket signs were lifted high, proud. It was invigorating to see so many people come together for one cause, to defend themselves against the mighty few. There was _power_ here. They were a united army.

This was what Jack Kelly had been talking about at Irving Hall, Ellie realized.

* * *

From the other side of the street, Mort stood amongst his fellow Queens newsies. They had been waiting for what felt like hours, waiting for Jack Kelly and David Jacobs to reemerge from _The World's_ iron gates, waiting to discover the outcome of their strike. The multitude that had been passionately protesting to have their rights heard had quieted dramatically with anticipation.

Mort saw Evans and Ricky straighten from ahead. Their sights were directed on the gates, which were swinging open finally. David Jacobs sauntered out with Kelly close behind, their expressions unreadable. The Manhattan newsies closed in around the pair, whispering furiously and pushing Kelly for answers. Several keyed up seconds passed during which the city became abnormally hushed.

And then, hoisting a small boy onto his shoulders, Kelly let out a decisive and resounding shout: "_We beat 'em!_"

The crowd sprung back to life. People jumped and clapped, and they let out shouts of pure joy. Some even hugged the people around them—whether they were strangers, it didn't matter.

"Told ya we'd beat 'em, didn't I?" exclaimed Ricky.

He had, Mort admitted. Ricky was the one who persuaded Mort to return to Queens, guaranteeing that—if the newsies all stuck together for just a while longer—they would bring Old Man Pulitzer back to his senses. "Or at least get the paper price back down," Ricky had said with a wink.

It wasn't what he said that had convinced Mort, but the fact that it was Ricky who said it, and with such conviction. Like the rest of the Queens newsboys, Mort trusted him, and Evans, too.

The newsboys gathered together, proud, elated, and relieved. With the jubilant atmosphere, even Mort caught several pats on the back. He tried to keep his balance in the midst of all the wild celebrations. It was when he caught himself from stumbling that he saw her. He almost missed it, but then his eyes whipped back to confirm the familiar face across the street.

_Ellie_. His face lit up when he got a clearer look at her. She was smiling.

But he had never seen her smile like that before. It puzzled him. Furthermore, her eyes were fixed on something in the distance to his right. Intrigued, Mort followed her line of sight. He expected to find nothing in particular—after all, everyone here was smiling—but he was wrong.

There, standing amongst the Manhattan newsies, was Skittery. Grinning. Panicked, Mort turned from him and Ellie and back, and there was no denying it.

They were gazing at each other.

Mort felt like someone had stomped on his heart. The blood rushed in his veins, pulsed in his ears. His head was clouded by a potent emotion he couldn't place. He couldn't think, so he only reacted. Breaking out from the throng of newsies, Mort marched forward.

Closing the distance between them, he called her, raising his voice over the ruckus. "Ellie."

She was genuinely surprised to see him. "Mort, you're here."

She beamed, and it only stung him. It wasn't the same expression as the one he had just seen her share with Skittery. "Can we talk?"

Noting his tone, she frowned with concern. "Of course."

He took her elbow in an effort to guide her, but they struggled to remove themselves from the rejoicing mass. In an impulsive moment, Mort chanced a look back over his shoulder to where he had last seen Skittery.

Their eyes locked.

Mort dragged his gaze away, tightening his hold on Ellie's arm.

And Skittery was left scowling after them.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Oh, dear, the movie is over! Where do we go from here? I will tell you: I hope people have been curious about her appearance in Chapter Eleven, because we're finally moving on to the Miss Addleton storyline. :)

I have to say I am relieved to have finished this chapter. I enjoyed writing more about the characters and moving their development forward, but I didn't expect to be stuck on the bread scene for so long and, for some reason, the wording felt even more awkward than usual. The more I deleted and wrote parts again, the more awkward they sounded! What's up with that?

Thank you to stress, Adren, Song For A Rainy Day and Laelyn24 for the encouraging reviews! I hope you know how much I really appreciate them. :)


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